


A Quiet Understanding

by likethenight



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Battle, Characters from the legends, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gawain and Galahad share a quiet understanding and a bond deeper even than love; quietly inseparable, they are Arthur's faithful knights and each other's steadfast strength. This is a tale set after the events of the film, looking back at how they came to be so close and forward at what happened after the battle of Badon Hill.</p><p>(the warnings on this story apply to chapter 3 and some later chapters: the character deaths are those known in canon and some supporting characters introduced in flashback - nobody who is alive at the end of the film dies in this story!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Quiet Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> This is a minor AU, in that it takes a fair few liberties with movie-canon (particularly with chronology and the ages of the characters - I'm aware that in the movie Gawain is depicted as being older than Galahad but this story just wrote itself with them being the same age) and introduces characters based on various characters from the legends of King Arthur, most notably Gawain's younger brothers Gareth, Gaheris and Agravaine, Percival (here called Parsefal) and the Lady Linnet (here called Lhuned). The 'graphic depictions of violence' warning applies to a handful of later chapters and is probably overdoing it, as the battle scenes aren't covered in enormous detail - but I wanted to be sure as injuries and deaths do occur.
> 
> I originally wrote most of this story around 2004/2005 and (under another name) posted a few chapters on the kingarthurfanfiction yahoo group and fanfiction.net, but most of it remained unposted until about three years ago, when someone contacted me on fanfiction.net to ask if there was any more. I dug out as much as I'd written and posted it up there, and in the process found myself inspired to write another chapter - which I then forgot to post. Story of my life! I've been dimly conscious for years that this story needed finishing, but on revisiting it now I realise that final chapter actually rounds it off quite nicely. So, to cut a long story short, here I am, posting this story on AO3 at last. I'm going to try and post a chapter a week - and I hope anyone who stumbles over it, in this quiet but much-beloved fandom of mine, enjoys reading it!

Gawain lay on his back and gazed up through the trees to the patches of blue sky far above him, thinking. Thinking and remembering, remembering the three who were no longer with them. Brave Dagonet, steadfast and true, tough as horseshoe-nails but with a soft spot for children, a reminder perhaps of those he had never had the chance to father. Tristan, quiet, enigmatic, sharp-witted; his dry sense of humour was something Gawain missed intensely. And Lancelot, of course Lancelot, moody, sulky, dashing, brilliant Lancelot, who chose death for his lord and lady over a life by their side yet never as close as he wanted. Gawain knew how Lancelot had felt about his commander and the Woads' warrior-princess; it had been easy to read on his expressive face, for one who knew him as well as Gawain had. The strange, intense brother-lover bond between Arthur and Lancelot had been something Gawain and the others turned a blind eye to over the years, the flaming arguments and stony silences, then the disappearances and laughing returns, the truth of what they had been doing plain to see, for those who wanted to look or to know. It hadn't mattered to Gawain, and he didn't think the others had cared either; although Bors had been heard to say that he couldn't understand why they didn't find some nice biddable woman each, who wouldn't give them so much grief. Everyone knew Lancelot's banter about fathering everyone's children was only a smokescreen.

And then there was Guinevere. Brave and wild, as good a warrior as any man, and yet beautiful, feminine even in her leather and warpaint. Gawain hadn't known quite what to make of her; he still didn't, if he was honest. She made him nervous. But it had been painfully clear how Arthur and Lancelot had felt. Both of them wanting her, still wanting each other, and neither of them knowing how to make it work. Guinevere had known, Gawain thought. If it had been advantageous to her, she'd have had the pair of them, separately or together, rivals or consorts, and perhaps they might have been happy. Gawain doubted it, though. Lancelot could never have been happy like that, not truly. Gawain wasn't even sure if he could ever have been happy, whatever the circumstances; there was too much conflict in that tempestuous soul for him ever to be content with a settled, peaceful life. Lancelot throve on conflict, on war and battle; life in times of peace would have bored him to tears.

Perhaps that was why he had chosen to die. For a choice it had been, Gawain was sure of that. No Saxon could have got the better of Lancelot unless he was very lucky, or Lancelot was allowing him to do so. No, Lancelot had sacrificed himself, one last glorious stand rather than live on the sidelines of Arthur and Guinevere's new peaceful world. Bloody idiot. This was not the end of the war. The Saxons would return; there would be no enduring peace. There were many battles ahead for them, Lancelot need not have feared; and Gawain was sure that Guinevere's plans would have included her husband's gallant lieutenant at some point, probably sooner rather than later.

But for now the invaders had retreated to lick their wounds, and Gawain was taking full advantage of this blessed respite. Sighing contentedly, he closed his eyes, listening to the song of the birds and the distant roar of the sea.

Half-dozing in the warm summer air, he did not open his eyes at the sound of soft footsteps approaching, nor did he do so when the owner of the footsteps flopped down beside him, head nestled into his shoulder and one arm flung happily across his chest. Smiling, Gawain ruffled the unruly dark curls, eyes still closed, for who else would it be but Galahad?

Theirs was a quiet understanding, born in their first days as soldiers of Rome. They had gravitated towards one another, two boys of an age and the youngest of their band, lost and bewildered so far from home. They had grown up side by side, every experience shared, first swords, first kills...first kiss. Not for them the volatile, ill-hidden passion of Arthur and Lancelot, no public displays and only the barest of smokescreens. They simply spent every waking moment together, as often as not feeling no need to speak, content in each other's company; never feeling the need to put it all into words, for there were no words that could truly encompass what they shared. More than friendship, more than brotherhood, more than love; more even, perhaps, than life, and what was the point of speaking it when they already knew? They knew, nobody else needed to know, and that was that.

Of course, the others had guessed, just as they had guessed about their commander and his lieutenant, but they, likewise, said nothing. It was, of course, difficult to bring up something that was never mentioned, and even Bors seemed happy keeping his nose out of it. Gawain smiled at that. Bors might not understand why they were not interested in anything other than flirting and joking with the women in the fort, but he would probably only have thought them truly strange if they had been uninterested in ale.

Galahad seemed to sense the smile, snuggling closer and snarling his fingers in a strand of Gawain's long, unkempt hair. Gawain shifted, settling an arm around him and burying his face in the dark curls. They could never have given this up, Gawain knew, even if they had gone home to Sarmatia as they had always wanted. No Sarmatian wives for them, no broods of Lancelot's children. They were happier here, for although they could not say exactly when it had happened, this green land had become their home.


	2. Quite the Opposite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen summers is an awkward age...especially when you're beginning to feel distinctly _different_ about your best friend. In which Gawain discovers that Bors is full of shit (which he knew already), the Romans lie with other men (which he also knew already, since everyone knows Arthur and Lancelot are doing it), and Galahad is avoiding him for the same reasons he's avoiding Galahad (which he definitely did not know, otherwise he wouldn't have spent so long worrying about it).
> 
> (the warnings on this story apply to later chapters and not this one!)

It had been a slow, gradual process. They had been sixteen summers old, soldiers for three years already, when Gawain had begun to realise that something was growing in his heart, something alien and frightening, and that it was worse when Galahad was around, or when he thought about his friend. That this was most of the time did not help.

He endured it for a long time, ignoring it, denying it, shoving it into the darkest recesses of his mind and trying to forget about it. Eventually he found himself beginning to avoid Galahad, finding excuses to spend time alone rather than with the boy who was his best friend, with whom he was so close that the rest of the company used to joke that if you saw one without the other, the end of the world must be nigh.

For his part, Galahad seemed barely to notice that Gawain was avoiding him; indeed it seemed that he welcomed the separation as much as Gawain did. And yet they were still friends, still closer than brothers. There were simply gaps in their conversations now, dangerous voids around which they trod very carefully indeed.

It came to a head one day in late autumn. Gawain came out of the sleeping quarters to see Galahad sitting on the wall next to the bath-house, kicking his heels against the stone and eating an apple. Gawain stopped short, finding himself transfixed, captivated by the sight of the strong white teeth biting into the apple, the movement of Galahad's mouth as he chewed, the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed. He was...beautiful...alluring...Gawain's thoughts whirled, he wanted, wanted to...what? He wanted to...kiss...to touch...and as the thought began to form, Galahad looked up, catching Gawain's eye. Horrified - could Galahad have read his thoughts, could he have seen on his face what he was thinking? - Gawain turned abruptly away and walked back inside, forcing himself not to run until he was safely indoors. He dashed blindly through the corridors, eventually finding himself spilling out into the stable yard - the other side of the fort from the bath-house, thank the Goddess. Collecting himself, he made for the stable; perhaps his horse would provide a distraction from the worryingly graphic turn his thoughts had taken.

Gawain spent the afternoon cleaning his tack and hoping that Galahad wouldn't find him. His friend was probably searching the fort for him, worried and hurt, wondering why Gawain was behaving so strangely. The thought that he had hurt Galahad upset him even more than the treacherous thoughts that had come to him as he watched his friend eat that damned apple. He had no business thinking about his friend like that. No business at all.

Losing himself in his work, he did not hear the door open, did not hear Galahad stride into the stables and make straight for Northwind's stall. The first he knew of his friend's presence was an amused voice saying, "You'll wear straight through the leather if you keep at it like that."

Gawain's head snapped up, unable to keep himself from looking at his friend. For a long, long moment he just stared up at Galahad, lost in those dark eyes, drowning in the concern radiating from him. The worry in Galahad's voice was obvious, lying like stone under the fragile veneer of amusement...and he was the cause of it. The shame overwhelming him, he tore his gaze away, focussing on the straw in front of him. He heard Galahad sigh.

"What's wrong, Gawain? Something's worrying you. What's up?"

"Nothing," he mumbled. "I'm fine."

Galahad sighed again and dropped onto the bench next to Gawain, forcing him to shuffle up to give him enough room for them to sit without touching. "Spare me. You're not fine. You've been avoiding me for weeks. What's wrong with you?"

"I told you, there's nothing wrong with me. I just - I want...I don't know," he faltered, appalled at how close he had come to admitting the truth. He stared resolutely at the floor.

"What do you want, Gawain?" Galahad coaxed gently, evidently determined to get to the bottom of it all.

"I don't know." He risked a glance up at his friend, and his heart sank at the look on Galahad's face. He was not going to be let off so lightly. "I...I can't tell you, so don't ask me. I just can't."

"Why not?" The hurt in Galahad's voice cut Gawain to the quick. "I'm your friend, you can tell me anything, Gawain. Anything. So what is it that you want?"

Gawain sighed and gave in; he knew from long experience that if Galahad wanted to know something, he would keep worrying at it until he wore down the defences keeping him out. Keeping his gaze fixed on his feet, unable to meet Galahad's eyes, he steeled himself to confess. "Goddess forgive me, Galahad," he whispered, "but I want so much to kiss you. So much..." he trailed off, barely audible. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for the condemnation he was sure would follow.

There was a moment's silence between them, then Galahad spoke. "So why don't you?"

Shocked, Gawain could not help but look up. Impossibly, Galahad was smiling; he didn't seem upset or disgusted or any of the other things Gawain had thought he'd be. And was that relief in his voice, relief and hope?

"Because," he stumbled, "because men lie with women, not with other men. Bors -"

"Bors is full of shit," Galahad interrupted. "You know that. Besides, men do lie with men. The Romans do, anyway."

"How do you know?"

"I asked Arthur," Galahad grinned. "After all, everyone knows he and Lancelot are doing it."

Gawain gaped at him, overwhelmed by his friend's audacity. He had indeed suspected that there was something going on between their commander and Lancelot, but he was still intimidated by Arthur's status as a proper Roman and their commanding officer, not to mention the fact that he was five years older than Gawain and Galahad. There was friendship between them, as there was between most of the men in the garrison, but none of the easy camaraderie that would develop over the years to come.

Galahad, it seemed, had not been so intimidated. Gawain wondered how he had got away with such an impertinent question. But then, quiet though he was, Galahad was very rarely afraid to speak his mind. 

"Anyway," Galahad continued, "aren't we as good as Romans now? Don't we fight in their army? Aren't they keen for us to adopt their customs?" His voice was soft and so persuasive that Gawain could not help nodding. "So why don't you kiss me, like you said you wanted to?"

Gawain swallowed. His heart seemed to have leapt into his throat, and it was hammering away so loudly that he was sure Galahad could hear it. Awkwardly, he leaned closer, willing himself to calm down, and brushed his lips against Galahad's. He began to move away again, but Galahad captured his mouth in a much bolder kiss, clumsy and inexperienced but dizzyingly sweet all the same. Gawain found himself resting his hands on Galahad's shoulders, sliding his fingers up into his soft, dark hair, utterly distracted by the sensation of Galahad's lips parting against his, his tongue gently lapping at Gawain's mouth, nudging his lips apart. This was nothing at all like Gawain's guilty imaginings; it was far more intense, far more amazing. Galahad's tongue touched his, softly, gently, and it was as though lightning crackled in Gawain's blood. How had he ever thought this could be wrong?

Dimly he realised that Galahad was shifting, moving to kneel astride Gawain on the bench, coming to rest in his lap almost without breaking the kiss. There was time for one gasped intake of breath, and then Galahad was kissing him again, deeper and more wildly than before, holding Gawain's head between his hands. Gawain's fingers traced a path down Galahad's back, seemingly of their own accord, settling at his narrow waist. Galahad was more slender than Gawain, but his slenderness belied his strength; he was...lithe, supple...where were these thoughts coming from? Gawain laughed at himself; now he thought he knew. He kissed Galahad back, hard, the clumsiness already gone. They were both quick learners, it seemed. 

At last Galahad pulled back, resting his forehead against Gawain's as they both gasped for breath.

"I wanted to tell you," he said when he had recovered himself enough to speak. "I wanted to, so badly, but I didn't know what you'd think."

Gawain closed his eyes. "You thought I would -"

"Push me away. Yes. I knew what I wanted, but I was afraid to tell you. I thought I knew why you were avoiding me - I thought you had guessed. But then...I couldn't help wondering, hoping, if maybe you were avoiding me for the same reasons I was avoiding you. So I had to ask, in the end. I'd have gone mad if I'd waited for you to get round to it."

Gawain laughed shakily. "I wasn't planning on ever telling you. I thought you'd hate me."

"Hate you? Never. Quite the opposite, actually." Galahad laid a gentle kiss on Gawain's brow. "Quite the opposite," he repeated in a whisper, and Gawain tightened his arms around him, not needing to consider his reply. 

"Quite the opposite," he echoed, and Galahad smiled. Resting his head upon Gawain's shoulder, he snuggled closer, turning his face to Gawain's neck. Gawain kissed the top of his head and breathed in the familiar scent of his hair, warm and comforting as always but now with a note of belonging and contentment that had not been there before. Thank the Goddess for Galahad's determined, outspoken streak.


	3. Too Many Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come to leave the fort behind for a new settlement with the Woads to the north of the Wall. Gawain finds himself reflecting on his comrades left behind in the graveyard, and two of them in particular: his little brothers. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: violence and (minor) character death in battle.

Gawain was not sorry to leave the fort behind. He was particularly relieved not to have to see the little graveyard every day, its ground too full of the bones of his countrymen. Those left alive had become so few over the years, and the dead had gone on multiplying. No doubt they would continue to do so, but there were no more new riders to take their place. There had not been more now for years. As Rome drew in on herself, calling her soldiers home to defend her against the barbarian invaders, the five-yearly summons of Sarmatia's boys had ceased. Gawain and Galahad had been among the next-to-last batch, nearly fifteen years ago now, and the last few had arrived five years later. And then there were no more. 

The Romans had come every five years, collecting all the boys who were old enough and fit enough to serve Rome. Their service was supposed to last fifteen years, but not all of them went home at the end of their time. Bors, for example, had been in Britannia for upwards of twenty-five years; it was the common opinion of the company that Vanora would not allow him to return to his homeland. Dagonet had been a soldier for the same length of time; he and Bors had been taken at the same time, just as Gawain and Galahad had been. Lancelot, too, had been part of Gawain's group, and Tristan had come five years before them. They had all been reluctant to leave their adopted home, it seemed. Not so some of the others; once their fifteen years were up most of the survivors took their papers and went, leaving Britannia in the hands of their younger brothers.

There had been no survivors from that last group of boys. There had been fewer of them than in previous years, only ten or twelve, and every last one of them had fallen, to enemy swords or sickness. Every last one of them was buried in the graveyard behind the fort, and Gawain and Galahad were the youngest of the company once more. Gawain could not now remember their names; it hurt too much to think of them, and so he had made himself forget. All except two of them, whose names it hurt most to recall, but whom he could not forget, no matter how hard he tried. Gareth and Gaheris. His little brothers.

They had been lost on the same day, in the same skirmish against a determined band of tribesmen. Gawain still had nightmares about it, on occasion, still woke shaking and gasping from dreams of watching his brothers die and being unable to save them.

Gareth had been fifteen and Gaheris sixteen, both excellent horsemen with two years of soldiering under their belts. It had been a chaotic battle, spread out over two fields, and Gawain had been at the opposite end of the fighting from his brothers; they were more than capable of looking after each other, and he had never been the overprotective type of older brother.

The fighting had begun to recede from Gawain's end of the battlefield, and he had happened to glance over at the place where the action was at its thickest. He had only been able to watch, horrified, as one of the tribesmen had reached up to pull Gareth from his horse. The animal reared and wheeled, slashing out with its hooves, but the attacker darted round behind it, forcing it to turn far more tightly than it was able, and it lost its balance, falling heavily to the ground with Gareth trapped half-under it. Gaheris had been fighting close by - those two had always been as inseparable as Bors and Dagonet, or Gawain himself and Galahad - and he leapt to his younger brother's defence, even as Gawain kicked his horse into a desperate gallop in the vain hope that he might get to them before the worst happened. But neither of them was quick enough to save Gareth; his attacker pulled him roughly out from under his frantically struggling horse, held him up by the hair and cut his throat. Gaheris uttered a wailing scream of pure fury that could be heard across the whole battlefield, launching himself upon the tribesman and hacking savagely at him. He despatched that one quickly, and the next one and the next one, but too soon he was surrounded and outmanned, and nothing Gawain could do could get him there fast enough to defend him. By the time he reached the little knot of barbarians, laying about him to left and right with his sword, all that was left of Gaheris was a broken body lying on the bloodstained grass only a yard or two from Gareth.

Gawain flung himself on the remaining attackers, despatching as many as he could. It was not many moments before he felt the reassuring presence of Galahad at his back, helping him to finish them off; and it was not until the final few had fled and Galahad was holding him tightly by the shoulders that he realised that he must have been screaming the whole time, for his throat was sore and his voice nearly gone. He clung to Galahad for long minutes, unable to move, losing himself in the strong arms around him and the gentle hands stroking his hair.

The rest of the company had ridden up to them, and Gawain had pulled himself together. They had placed the bodies of the dead on their riderless horses and made their slow, weary way back to the fort. Gareth's horse had broken a leg and had to be put out of its misery there on the field, so Gaheris' horse bore two bodies on their final journey.

Gawain held himself together through the burial, laying his brothers' armour on the mounds of earth that covered their bodies, so pitifully small that it did not seem possible that what lay beneath them had once been young men, full of life. He maintained a stony silence through dinner that night, his face set, barely seeming to hear the condolences of his friends. Even Galahad could not get a reaction from him, although he did not allow Gawain's silence to put him off, simply staying by his side, a hand on his shoulder or at the small of his back at all times to give unspoken comfort.

After the meal was over they congregated quietly around the fire, nobody in any mood for merrymaking this night. Vanora lifted her voice in a plaintive lament, and at this Gawain rose from his seat and strode out into the darkness. Galahad let him go, staying instead to hear Vanora's song. Gawain would find him when he was ready, and if he did not, then Galahad would know when the time was right to go to him.

Several hours later, when most of the company had drunk themselves into a maudlin stupor, Galahad decided that it was about time he went to find Gawain. He charmed a serving-girl into giving him one of the last full flagons of wine and carried it out into the night, pausing once he was outside to breathe the cold air and clear his head of the smoke and wine fumes; that was the trouble with winter at the fort. Everyone congregated inside and the atmosphere rapidly became all but unbearable. It was better in summer, when they spilled out into the courtyards, but in the middle of February that was a little impractical. Feeling rather better, Galahad set out to look for Gawain.

He tried the graveyard first, but it was deserted, the fresh earth of the new graves standing out almost obscenely from the short winter grass. The moon glinted on the armour of the men they had buried today and Galahad shivered. At times like this he could not help wondering how long it would be until he was the one being brought home slung lifeless over his horse; or worse, whether next time it would be Gawain. They had been inseparable friends for seven years now, rather more than that for the last four, and Galahad knew that the one person he could not bear to lose would be Gawain.

Turning his back on the graveyard, and pushing away the thoughts of impending death, Galahad returned to the fort, keeping his sharp eyes open for any sign of his friend. Gawain was not in his chamber; nor was he in Galahad's. He was not in the halls or corridors, the stables or the bath-house. Galahad came out of the main entrance, wondering whether perhaps Gawain simply did not want to be found, in which case he would respect his friend's wishes and leave him alone for the night, much as he hated the idea. Sighing, he turned his gaze to the stars, searching for inspiration, and noticed a figure huddled on the wall, staring out over the roofs of the fort to the hills beyond. Offering up a brief, whispered word of thanks to the Goddess for helping him ensure that Gawain would not have to spend this night alone, Galahad made for the nearest flight of steps.

Galahad was careful to make just enough noise to alert Gawain to his presence, without disturbing his friend's silent contemplation. Sitting down on the wall next to Gawain, he put the flagon of wine down beside him and settled himself quietly, following Gawain's gaze to the dark hills as he waited for his friend to acknowledge him. A few long moments passed, and then Gawain leaned close to Galahad, resting his head on Galahad's shoulder. He still did not speak, but Galahad now knew that his presence was welcome. Shifting, he slid his arm around Gawain's shoulders and rested his head upon Gawain's. 

They sat in silence for a long while, each lost in thought. Eventually Galahad remembered the wine, and he offered the flagon wordlessly to Gawain. Gawain shook his head, and Galahad gave a one-shouldered shrug, lifting the flagon to his own lips and taking a drink.

"It won't help," Gawain said, his voice hoarse and rough from his screaming upon the battlefield, and heavy with suppressed emotion.

Galahad tightened his arm around him. "I know," he said gently. "I thought it might warm you a little, though."

Gawain sighed. "I don't think anything will warm me tonight. But thank you, all the same."

They fell silent again, Galahad occasionally drinking from the flagon. The moon was beginning her descent when Gawain spoke again.

"It should not have been them," he said softly. "They were only boys."

"I know," Galahad said. "It should not have had to be any of us. Rome has a lot to answer for." His voice was bitter. "Why should Sarmatia's young men have to die for a country not their own, thanks to a quirk of history?"

"Why indeed? Why any of us? But most of all, why in the name of the Goddess did it have to be my brothers?" His voice almost broke and he buried his face in Galahad's neck, struggling to bring himself under control. Galahad brought his other hand up to stroke Gawain's hair.

"They were good boys," he said, "and you were a good brother to them. They loved you."

"I know." Gawain's voice was muffled. "But I couldn't save them. They were so far away, and those bastard wildmen were too quick. I had to...I had to watch, knowing there was nothing I could do."

"I know. I saw it too. But you made sure the bastards wouldn't kill any more of our men. You avenged your brothers, or you began to, at least."

"You helped me. I can't - I don't know how to thank you for that. You were there with me."

"You don't need to thank me, Gawain. Wherever you go, I will follow, and whenever you need me I will be there. I promise you that." Galahad fought to keep his voice steady; he was unused to being so candid, such declarations not being habit between them. 

Gawain turned, wrapping his arms around Galahad. "You know...I mean, me too. I'm not going anywhere without you. Only - don't you go and die on me. Not you too."

"I'll do my best not to," Galahad promised, one hand idly rubbing Gawain's back. "As long as you do the same. Two sons are enough for any mother to lose, and I - I have no one but you."

"I promise," Gawain replied. "I - oh, Galahad, I'm so tired. I'm so tired of all this death. And we've another eight years until we can call ourselves free." His voice was bleak with despair, and Galahad's heart caught at the sound.

"I know. I'm tired of it too. But I can't see any way out of it for us. I wish...I wish we were not soldiers. I wish we were at home, and free, and could call our lives our own."

"And our deaths."

"Our deaths, too," Galahad agreed. Looking at the sky, he saw that the moon had almost set. "It's late. I suppose it's time we went looking for our beds."

"I suppose so." Gawain sat up, pulling away from Galahad. "Would you stay with me? I always sleep more soundly when you're there, and tonight I don't think sleep will come easily."

Galahad smiled. In truth, it was a rare night that they spent apart, but Gawain's shy request touched him deeply. "Of course I'll stay, and see off any dreams that might trouble you."

Gawain smiled faintly in answer, then leaned forward and brushed a kiss over Galahad's lips. "You always know what I need, better than I do myself."

"Just as you know what I need. And I think what we both need now is a warm bed. You're freezing." Getting to his feet, he extended a hand and pulled Gawain up, catching him in a hug before leading him down off the wall and back to his chamber. They curled up together beneath the blankets and Galahad held Gawain close to him, stroking his hair and rubbing his back soothingly as Gawain drifted off to sleep. He wept in his dreams that night and clung to Galahad more tightly than he had ever done before, and Galahad stayed awake watching over him until long after dawn.

******

Gawain recollected himself at the touch of Galahad's hand on his shoulder. Shaking his head, he went to collect the saddlebags containing the last of his possessions from the fort, fastening them to his saddle and mounting up. It was more than a day's ride to their new settlement with the Woads in the forests north of the Wall, and the sooner he was away from the fort, the happier he would be. Whispering one last farewell to his brothers, he turned his horse and rode to join Galahad at the head of the ragtag procession of riders and carts that made up the inhabitants of the fort. He was free at last, and he thought that so too were his brothers. Only their bones lay here; their spirits were free to roam the plains as brave horses with all the rest of their countrymen. Perhaps now they would all know peace in their hearts.


	4. First Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain thinks back upon his first meeting with Galahad and Lancelot upon the plains of Sarmatia, their long journey to their post in Britannia, and their first days with Arthur, their young commander, and the other Sarmatians at the Wall - and the beginnings of the unbreakable bond between Gawain and Galahad, forged on that long journey.

It had been a long, hard journey across the plains, and Gawain had mostly spent it trying to become accustomed to his first grown-up horse and biting back tears at every thought of home. Home, the little settlement clustered around a junction in the road, the small house crowded but welcoming, filled with all his family. His mother and father, whom he had last seen over his shoulder as he rode away, his father raising an arm in salute and his mother wiping away tears. It was the first time he had ever seen his mother cry. And his little brothers, Agravaine who was only six and too small to do anything much beyond clinging to his mother's skirts, Gaheris and Gareth, nine and eight, standing as straight and tall as they could, hoping to impress the Roman soldier who had come for their oldest brother. In five years it would be their turn to ride away with the Romans, but Gawaine knew that they could be sent anywhere in the Empire. Indeed, he did not yet know himself where he was going. He expected never to see his family again.

They were a ragtag band of boys under the supervision of a handful of Roman soldiers. Every day or so another group would join them, slowly swelling their numbers. Gawain mostly stuck with the two boys who had been with the soldier who had collected him. One was a couple of years older than Gawain's thirteen summers and called himself Lancelot; he had dark hair and eyes and seemed rather sure of himself, although Gawain thought that he was probably putting it on. Lancelot wore a strangely shaped amulet around his neck; it seemed to represent a fantastical creature that Lancelot called a "lion", although he didn't know what it signified. He said that one of the girls in his village had given it to him when he left, adding in a throwaway tone that it was probably because she couldn't bear to see him go. (Gawain was amused to find out, much later, that the girl in question had been Lancelot's sister, but knowing Lancelot as he did by then, he understood the bravado.)

The other boy was a different matter entirely. Superficially he looked a little like Lancelot, but that was where the similarity ended. He said his name was Galahad, and his scruffy mop of dark curls had a habit of falling over his enormous blue eyes, eyes that almost seemed too big for his face, particularly when he was tired. He was thirteen too, although his birthday fell in the middle of summer, while Gawain had turned thirteen in the depths of winter, close enough to the Solstice to make him believe, until he had grown old enough to understand, that the celebrations were in honour of his birthday. The extra six months he had on Galahad were enough to give him a feeling of great seniority and an impulse to look after the younger boy. Gawain had been an oldest brother all his life and some habits were hard to shake off; and besides, it made him feel better about leaving his brothers behind. Galahad sometimes tolerated his protectiveness and sometimes grumbled about it but on the whole he seemed to find it rather comforting. Quieter and less self-assured than Lancelot, he was nevertheless unafraid to speak his mind once he got used to his new friends.

They talked a lot as they rode, comparing adventures and speculating about where they would be sent, though none of them knew much about the Empire of Rome besides what they had heard from travellers and pedlars that passed through their villages. They knew of Rome herself, of course, and they had heard of Gaul and Britannia, but that was about the extent of their knowledge. It didn't bother them much; spending the next fifteen years as soldiers had not been their choice, but all three of them were rather excited and curious about life as a soldier. Wherever they were posted would have suited them fine, as long as there were plenty of adventures in store for them.

After many weeks of riding they finally came to the coast, and it was there that their Roman escorts told them where they were being sent. Britannia. A bleak, foggy island, the soldiers said, inhabited by wild tribesmen who painted themselves blue and came screaming at you out of the trees, armed with spears, swords and bows. Particularly in the north, or so the soldiers said, which was why one of their emperors had built a wall right the way across the island, to keep the natives out. Gawain, Galahad and Lancelot exchanged sceptical glances at this, but they had already learned to keep quiet when their commanders were speaking, unless they wanted a beating.

The three boys continued to disbelieve in this mighty wall throughout the rest of their journey. During the rough sea voyage when they were all three convinced that they were going to die out here in this unnatural place, in a wooden tub pitching on the water, they kept themselves going by jokingly wondering how on earth anyone could build a wall across a whole island, particularly one as big as Britannia was supposed to be. They scoffed about it throughout the long ride north through Britannia, which was in the main a fairly pleasant place, very green and beautiful, if also rather grey-skied and rainy. They continued to scoff right up until the moment when they actually laid eyes on it for the first time. Coming to the brow of a hill, they looked down upon the fortress that they would call home for the next fifteen years, and the wall that flanked it. The fortress was actually built into the wall, a huge stone structure comprised of an outer wall enclosing a network of buildings, with this great wall extending from the middle of either side. And extending as far as the eye could see in either direction, over hill and dale until their eyes began to water from trying to follow it into the distance. 

The Romans noticed their dumbstruck expressions and laughed, encouraging their charges down the hill towards the fortress. As they neared it, the huge gates swung slowly open to admit them and the boys all felt suddenly very small indeed. None of them had ever seen such an enormous building before; and they were expected to live here? Even Lancelot seemed somewhat cowed.

Once inside, though, the fortress looked a little less intimidating. The buildings were all low one-storey affairs not all that dissimilar to the homes they had left behind, and there were people bustling about everywhere. The boys all dismounted and looked about them, eyes full of wonder.

A young man, perhaps five years older than Gawain and Galahad, stepped out of the shadow of the colonnade and came forward to welcome them all. The soldiers who had escorted them saluted him and he smiled. He was tall and dark-haired, but his eyes were green, and he wore the red cloak of a centurion. Lancelot, Gawain and Galahad exchanged a glance; was this their commander? He was barely older than they themselves.

The young man introduced himself as Lucius Artorius Castus, their commander, and the boys were surprised at the ring of authority in his voice. They later found out that this was his first command post, and that he had not long returned from Rome, although he had been born in Britannia. He had brought back ideas with him that did not seem to sit well with the older soldiers, ideas about the equality of all his men, and he insisted that they all called him Arthur rather than "sir". In the great hall that evening, the boys listened to the more experienced men grumble about Arthur's lack of authority, but they already knew better. They all three instinctively liked Arthur; he was just as new as they were and he seemed fair and friendly. Gawain noticed that Lancelot watched him almost constantly that night and during the days that followed, an expression in his eyes that Gawain was, as yet, too young to read.

They met their fellow soldiers over the next days as they began their training, learning who was fair and who was not, who was strict and who would let them get away with small things. There was Bors, who was loud, coarse and fierce but kindly with it, and his friend Dagonet who would always take the time to put them at their ease, remembering his own homesickness. There was Tristan the scout, tall and silent and more than a little intimidating; nobody crossed him. Then there was Cei, who was something to do with Arthur, a cousin or stepbrother or something, and seemed to feel that this gave him the right to pick on whoever wasn't doing so well that day. Balin and Balan, the brothers, who fought together almost as one man; the demonstration they gave impressed Gawain and Galahad so much that they decided then and there to learn to do the same. And others, too many to name or keep track of, all seasoned soldiers with plenty of tales to tell, who mostly made the new boys feel welcome. As they began to settle in their homesickness faded and they began to make allegiances; Lancelot and Arthur soon became fast friends, but Gawain and Galahad's alliance had already been formed long before, on the plains of Sarmatia. Although Gawain had begun by looking upon Galahad as a substitute little brother, by the time they reached Britannia he had realised that instead he had a best friend, an equal, a constant companion whom he would not hesitate to trust with his life. The thought came to him, as they crossed the sea, that only death would break their friendship, and the longer he knew Galahad, the more he believed it was true.


	5. (interlude) Holly and Scratches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knights celebrate the Winter Solstice at the Wall, a couple of years before the events of the film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mentioned various pagan customs in this Winter Solstice-based interlude; it also seemed appropriate to me that one of the customs of the Sarmatian knights would be the worship of the Horse Goddess who is often known as Epona, although she isn't mentioned by name here. Additionally, many Roman soldiers worshipped the god Mithras, whose birthday was celebrated on 25 December; it would have been a busy week up on Hadrian's Wall!

The fires burned merrily in the braziers and the ale flowed freely from barrel to tankard in the tavern, and the revellers spilled out into the courtyard despite the heaps of snow swept back against the walls and the fresh flakes beginning to fall. Gawain stood just outside the tavern doorway, enjoying the cold, fresh air as he sipped his ale and listened to the songs sung by a group of other knights. They sang of the battle between the Holly King and the Oak King, the return of the Sun and the turning of the seasons. Gawain smiled; just enough of a reminder for him that this was a celebration of the Winter Solstice and not his birthday. That had been a few days ago, and he had turned twenty-six. There had been drinking and singing then, too, but the songs had been rather more ribald and rude.

Galahad was standing by the nearest brazier, Gawain noticed, warming his hands and rubbing at the scratches that criss-crossed his arms and hands. They had been out gathering holly and mistletoe earlier with which to adorn the barracks, and had both earned more than their fair share of wounds. Tristan had suffered no such inconvenience; he had climbed the highest trees for the mistletoe and had thus avoided the holly-bushes completely, crafty beggar that he was.

Gawain smiled. Any minute now they'd be bringing the fir branches for burning, in the hopes that the Mother would appear in the smoke to tell fortunes. Gawain himself was not sure that she would deign to appear, but the others were probably too drunk to care; soon they'd be telling fortunes of their own. Gawain, of course, already knew where his fortune lay, so he chose instead to go and join Galahad at the brazier and warm his hands a little.

Galahad smiled in greeting but said nothing, and they stood for a while in companionable silence. Gawain could not help noticing that Galahad was still fussing at his scratches, and certainly some of them looked quite deep.

"Want some salve for those?" he queried eventually, and Galahad looked up at him with a grin.

"Thought you'd never ask," he said cheekily, and Gawain grinned back.

"Come on. I've got some of Dagonet's finest in my room."

Obediently (for once, Gawain could not help thinking), Galahad followed Gawain to the sleeping quarters, still deserted so early in the celebrations. Gawain shut firmly the door to his room and motioned for Galahad to sit down on the bed, lighting the lamp and opening the chest where he kept his belongings. The small Samian-ware pot of salve nestled under his shirts, tidily folded and stacked, and he pulled it out and uncorked it, crossing the narrow room to kneel on the floor in front of Galahad.

"Give me your hands," he said, and when Galahad obeyed he began to smooth the salve into his friend's skin, gently rubbing it in until it melted away. Pushing up Galahad's sleeves he worked his way up his forearms until all the scratches were covered, but did not take his hands away. Looking up at Galahad, he raised his eyebrows. "Better?" he asked.

"Much," said Galahad with a relieved smile. "They've stopped stinging already. Bloody holly."

Gawain grinned. "But the effect makes it all worthwhile, don't you think? Anything that still lives in the depths of winter in this godsforsaken place is to be celebrated. Reminds us all that the sun might just shine again one day."

"Sometimes I really doubt that," Galahad muttered. "Is it just our advancing years that make me think that Sarmatia was a far sunnier place?"

"You're not imagining it," said Gawain. "Still, the sun does shine here sometimes, and tomorrow it will be a little longer between sunrise and sunset, and a little longer the day after that, and before you know it, it'll be spring again."

"And raining," Galahad retorted. "No, you're right. It's good to be reminded, and the holly _does _look good. Particularly all over the great hall. Lucky Arthur doesn't begrudge us our celebrations."__

__"He'd have a mutiny on his hands if he tried. Besides, can you see the garrison giving up their Mithras-festivals?"_ _

__"True," said Galahad, looking thoughtful. He was silent a moment, looking at Gawain's hands on his arms, then he looked up. "May the Horse Mother bless and watch over us," he murmured, and Gawain nodded._ _

__"May she keep us all safe and see us through the coming year," he countered, and closed his hands over Galahad's. Galahad rested his forehead against Gawain's for a moment, and then they kissed, softly, gently, with a silent promise to look out for each other over the year ahead. Drawing apart again, they smiled contentedly and then went to rejoin the festivities; it was time for more ale and a good laugh at the fortune-tellers._ _


	6. A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain and Galahad acquire a sister, on the journey to their new home with the Woads, north of the Wall. And along with her, she is carrying a secret.

Not everyone had gone south with the bishop when the Saxons came. Once the battle was over, many of the fort's inhabitants came straggling back, unwilling to travel with the Roman who had sent their beloved Arthur and his knights into such danger. They declared their allegiance to the new king and threw themselves on his mercy. Arthur, acting on Merlin's advice, was preparing to settle in a secluded valley where the Woads already had their base, and he offered protection and an escort of knights to all those who wished to settle there with him.

Riding alongside the column of people making that trek, Gawain found himself watching one of the women from the fort as she walked alongside a wagon filled to bursting with clothes, pots and pans and other domestic trappings. Her name was Lhuned and she had been very fond of Gawain's brother Gareth, when he had been alive. Not that a casual observer would have known it; she had spent most of her time railing at him and insulting him. Gawain suspected that she had just been doing it to get a reaction out of him, but most of the time Gareth had answered her insults with his usual sunny smile. Occasionally his temper would snap and he would give as good as he got, but mostly her hostility slid off him like water from the wings of a duck. They were the same age, give or take a few months either side, and underneath it all they had been fast friends. Gawain suspected that they had been on the verge of becoming rather more than that, having discovered them more than once sitting talking with their heads suspiciously close together, but then Gareth had had his throat cut by a tribesman and Lhuned had been left alone.

She had never cried. She was uncharacteristically quiet for a time, but nobody ever saw her shed a tear for Gareth. Her sister Leonys, who had been Gaheris' lover, on and off, had wept for weeks after both boys died, and had not been seen to smile again until a handsome merchant's son from a nearby town had visited the fort, seen her, whisked her off and married her. Lhuned, however, had remained strong and fiercely independent. She had been lover to some of the knights, but was serious about none of them and had refused all offers of marriage. She was friendly with Gawain, allowing him to sit her on his knee on occasion, when they had both had too much to drink, but even he did not truly know her.

As Gawain watched her, Lhuned stumbled, only just managing to prevent herself from falling. Looking more closely, Gawain realised that she seemed exhausted. He rode up alongside her and offered to let her ride with him for a while.

Lhuned scowled up at him. "I'm fine," she snapped. "Just a little tired, that's all."

"You're not fine," Gawain pointed out. "You've got shadows under your eyes, you're stumbling and you look absolutely drained. Besides, I could do with the company."

She rolled her eyes. "Why, where's Galahad?"

"At the head of the column, I believe," he replied, perhaps a little too quickly, and Lhuned darted a mischievous glance at him, but said nothing. They continued in silence for a few minutes, until Lhuned stumbled again. She did not fall, but it was enough to make Gawain assert what little authority he had. Leaning down, he scooped her up and set her in front of him on his horse. She struggled a little, but not nearly as much as she would have done had she been at full strength. Gawain told her to shut up and settle down, not altogether unkindly, and she obeyed uncharacteristically meekly, leaning back against him as he put his arms around her to take up the reins again. Within a handful of minutes she was fast asleep.

Some time later Galahad came riding back from the head of the column, ostensibly to check that everything was all right, but taking the chance to spend a few moments with Gawain as they rode. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of the woman in Gawain's arms, although the frown that was threatening to follow disappeared when he realised that it was Lhuned.

"Is she all right?" he asked quietly, not wanting to wake her.

"I'm not sure," Gawain replied equally quietly. "She's usually as strong as an ox, but today she seemed exhausted. She nearly fell twice, so I insisted she ride with me."

Galahad grimaced. "I bet you suffered for that."

"Not nearly as much as I was expecting to," said Gawain, puzzled. "She complained a bit, but when I told her to shut up she just did. I think she might be ill."

Galahad laughed softly. "It certainly sounds like it. I suppose it's been a hard few weeks for the others as well as us. She'll probably be fine once we're there and she's had a couple of good nights' sleep."

But Lhuned did not make a quick recovery. Over the next few weeks she seemed to get paler and paler, and more and more tired and listless. She spoke very little to anyone, preferring to avoid gatherings of people, and Gawain and Galahad had no more luck than anyone else when they tried to find out what was wrong.

One afternoon a couple of months after they had settled in the valley, Gawain and Galahad were taking advantage of the fact that neither of them was on guard duty to sit together in the doorway of the hut they shared and watch the world go by. Lhuned walked past, and something about the way she moved prompted Galahad to nudge Gawain and point her out. 

"There's something different about her," he said. "She's been getting thinner and thinner, but she looks fatter around the waist."

Gawain looked at him. "You don't think she's -"

Galahad screwed up his eyes and studied Lhuned intently. "I think she is. And I reckon she's about four months along."

"How do you know?"

"I had older sisters, back home. Lots of them. And I've seen Vanora enough times to know what it looks like."

Gawain shook his head. "But who? And why is she not with him?"

"You know Lhuned," Galahad shrugged. "She won't marry anyone. Still holds a flame for your brother, if you ask me."

Sighing, Gawain shook his head. "I always suspected as much, poor girl. But whatever reason she has, I'm not looking forward to asking her about it."

"You're going to ask her?" Galahad laughed incredulously. "Do you not value your life?"

"Good point," Gawain conceded. "But I can't just let her go through it on her own. She loved my brother once, and for his sake I've always looked out for her, when she's let me. But I've no idea how I'm going to ask her about this."

"You can't exactly walk up to her and say 'Lhuned, are you pregnant?', can you?" chuckled Galahad. "She'd bite your head off before you'd shut your mouth."

"I'm glad you find this so amusing," Gawain grumbled, aiming a mock punch at Galahad's head. Galahad caught his fist with one hand and jabbed him in the ribs with the other, and the conversation soon degenerated into a playful scuffle, which in turn led to them retreating indoors and barring the door against interruptions.

Some time later, when he had had a chance to get his breath back and give heartfelt thanks to the Goddess that their new home afforded them more privacy than the fort, Gawain returned to the problem of finding out about Lhuned's condition. Galahad was right, the direct approach wouldn't work - but what would?

The next time they were all congregated around the fire Gawain kept an eye out for Lhuned, hoping she would appear. She had been keeping herself to herself, but just occasionally he had glimpsed her on the edge of the circle of firelight; hopefully tonight would be one of those nights.

His patience was rewarded some time after moonrise, when the Woads were raising their voices in an unearthly song to the moon. He spotted Lhuned making her way purposefully through the crowd, a scowl on her face, and his heart sank; this was definitely not going to be easy. Still, he was supposed to be a brave knight, wasn't he? Surely he was not afraid of a woman (or at least, a woman who was not one of Guinevere's warrior band; he was healthily wary of _them_ )? 'Ah, but this is Lhuned,' he reminded himself, 'and she is not your average adversary.' If anything, he was more wary of Lhuned even than of Guinevere and her sisters in arms. Still, his conscience would not let her pass by unchecked, so as she passed him he caught her sleeve and tugged her down to sit next to him.

"What do you want?" she snapped, and Gawain shrugged. 

"Just to talk to you," he said lightly, and was aware of Galahad shuffling discreetly out of hearing, the deserter.

"What about? What's so important that it can't wait until those bastards have stopped wailing?"

Gawain blinked at the venom in her voice but pressed on regardless. "I just want to make sure you're all right," he said. "You're not looking well, you haven't since we came here."

Lhuned rolled her eyes. "You really know how to charm a girl, don't you? No wonder only Galahad'll have you."

"I resent that!" Galahad muttered, not so far out of earshot after all. Lhuned ignored him, staring angrily at Gawain instead.

"I'm fine, Gawain. You fuss too much."

Steeling himself not to snap back at her (how had Gareth ever managed it?), Gawain drew a long, calming breath. "Will you at least tell me who it is?"

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Will you tell me who is responsible for your current state, and why he is not looking after you as he should?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Lhuned mulishly. "And I don't need looking after."

"Yes, you do. You're thin, pale and ill. With the exception of your foul temper, you're a shadow of the Lhuned I know, the girl my brother loved."

That hit home. Gawain could see the pain in her eyes, hastily hidden but there all the same. Perhaps Galahad was right. She looked away for a moment, obviously pulling herself together, before turning back to him, eyes blazing.

"All right. Yes, I'm with child, and no, I'm not going to tell you who the father was. It doesn't matter who he was. I didn't love him, and he's dead now anyway." Gawain raised an eyebrow at that, and she snorted. "Bloody Saxons, what do you think? And now would you please let me go so that I can escape this damned wailing? It's setting my teeth on edge."

Dumbly, Gawain let her go and watched her climb to her feet and storm off into the darkness. If his eyes and ears were not deceiving him, Lhuned had been very close to weeping. Lhuned, who never cried. Well, that sealed it.

Galahad shuffled back over, bringing a flagon of wine with him. "So. I presume I'm right," he said with considerable smugness.

"You are. She's pregnant, and she won't tell me who the father was. From the sounds of it, the Saxons got him."

"Well, that narrows it down."

"Mmmmm." Gawain stared at the fire, feeling inexplicably disturbed now that their suspicions had been confirmed. Galahad nudged him, holding up the flagon.

"Come on, you. Wine and privacy, because you obviously need to talk about this." He stood up, pulling Gawain up with him, and they made off back to their hut.

Once comfortably settled in the doorway, Galahad took a long drink and asked, "So what's the problem?"

Gawain sighed. "I don't know. Just that it should have been my brother's child. I would have welcomed her as a sister."

"There's nothing to say you can't still do that," Galahad pointed out. "Particularly since the child's father is apparently dead. She'll need someone to look after her."

Gawain had to laugh at that. He could not think of anyone less likely than Lhuned to need looking after, under normal circumstances at least.

"Besides," Galahad added, "the child will need a father."

Gawain just stared at him. "Are you suggesting that I -"

Galahad grinned. "What makes you think she'd have you? Or that I'd let you go? No, I mean that the child will need someone to take the place of its father, particularly if it's a boy. I'd wager that Lhuned would let you do that at least."

"I suppose so," Gawain sighed. "The years are going to be long indeed."

"You never know, motherhood might mellow her," Galahad grinned. Gawain gave him a long, hard stare, and his smile wilted a little. "Or perhaps not. Still, if Gareth could put up with her, I'm sure you can. You put up with me, after all."

Gawain could not help smiling at that, and he slipped an arm around Galahad, ruffling his hair with his free hand and laughing as Galahad batted him away. "I'm sure there's a reason for that," he said. "I suppose I shall have to grit my teeth every time Lhuned's temper gets the better of her, and remind myself that I'm doing this for my brother. I just hope he knows what he's let me in for."

"Ah, he knows," Galahad said sagely. "I'm sure he does." There was a particularly wicked twinkle in his eye, and Gawain could not help but hug him close, pressing a kiss to his dark curls.

"You really are a tower of strength, you know," he said, almost but not quite managing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"I know," said Galahad smugly.

"In which case you can help me look after our new little sister and her young one, when it arrives. I'm sure you wouldn't want to do anything less."

"Now wait a moment," Galahad protested, but Gawain cut him off by kissing him firmly and in a manner that brooked no argument. When he finally released him, Galahad had a slightly dazed look in his eyes and could only murmur, "Yes, all right, Gawain, whatever you say. Only don't stop doing that, will you?" He blinked. "And for the love of the Goddess, don't call her 'little sister' to her face."

Gawain grinned. "Yet again you have a point. Now, where was I?" He kissed Galahad again, feeling inexplicably happier about the whole affair. Perhaps it wouldn't be quite as bad as he feared, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lhuned and her sister Leonys are based on Linnet/Lynette/Linet and Liones/Lionesse from the tale of Sir Beaumains, the name that Sir Kay gave Gareth when he first arrived at Camelot. In Malory, Gareth marries Lionesse and Gaheris marries Linet, but in the version I first read as a child it's the other way round, and it's that version that I've borrowed here. (and if you want to know what she looks like, look at the woman seen sitting with both Galahad and Gawain in the tavern scene in the film, the night before they head north to save the Roman family...)


	7. Winter's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Lhuned's pregnancy progresses, Gawain is haunted by memories of his brother Gareth, who should have been the child's father...and when the child arrives, Gawain and Galahad begin to get a suspicion or two as to who its father actually was. And for Lhuned herself, it seems that the long winter of her grief might at last be edging into spring.

As Lhuned's pregnancy progressed, she seemed to become gradually accustomed to having a pair of self-appointed older brothers. Her temper did not improve, but the tone of her scolding and complaining changed; no one who did not know her would notice it, but Gawain and Galahad observed a certain warmth in her voice that had not been there before. She was, after all, very much alone in the settlement, and not entirely through her own fault. Her sister had been married and gone for years, and many of the other Romano-British had gone south with the bishop. She refused to mix with the Woads, to the point of flatly refusing to consult their healer at any time during her pregnancy. Gawain and Galahad tried to persuade her otherwise but she was having none of it. Eventually Gawain asked her why, since simply trying to cajole her was getting him nowhere, and after a sullen silence she eventually replied, her voice tight with suppressed fury and a far deeper emotion simmering under the surface.

"Because those bastards took my Gareth away from me. I will live among them, because I have nowhere else to go, but I will not mix with them, and I will not let them see my weakness. They will never see me weep for him." She had refused to say more, but she had allowed Gawain to squeeze her shoulder and had leaned into his touch for a moment, almost as if she were borrowing his strength until she felt strong enough to stand on her own again. Her admission had tugged at Gawain's heart, for it was the first time he had heard her speak of Gareth since that awful day when he had returned to the fort with the bodies of both his little brothers slung over Gaheris' horse. She did not mention him again, but she became a little more open with both Gawain and Galahad after that day, sometimes managing a whole conversation without snapping anyone's head off.

"So I was right," said Galahad, the next time he and Gawain were alone. "She still loves him."

"Evidently," said Gawain. "Although I'd wager she'd deny it to her last breath. It's been eight years, after all, and she knows he's not coming back." He shook his head. "Poor girl."

"So Lhuned the Fierce does have feelings after all. Who would have thought it?"

"She does. But don't tell her you've guessed. I rather like you as you are," Gawain grinned.

Galahad grimaced. "I'll bear that in mind. Not that I'm stupid enough to upset her. I like me as I am too."

Gawain pulled him into a hug. "Ridiculous, isn't it? All the things we've faced, and we're afraid of my little brother's sweetheart."

"Just a little bit. Gareth must have been a very brave lad."

"Aye, that he was," said Gawain, his voice distant with memories. "That he was."

Gareth at the age of three, clambering fearlessly onto his first pony; riding hell-for-leather over the plains, so fast and so recklessly that nobody could catch up with him, even Gawain on his larger, faster horse; Gareth learning to shoot rabbits from the back of his horse, leaning at perilous angles that ensured he always hit his mark. Gareth arriving at the fort, riding alongside his brother Gaheris, jaw set and refusing to show any fear or homesickness. And Gareth the soldier, fearless and trustworthy; if he had lived, he would have been among the best of them all.

Gawain was recalled to himself by the brush of Galahad's lips on his brow, the gentle kiss taking away the bitter sting of his memories. Galahad had been his rock for so long; they had supported each other through losses beyond imagining, but the worst by far had been the deaths of Gaheris and Gareth. Gawain thought he might have lost himself after they died, lost himself to bitterness and the insane compulsion for revenge; but Galahad had steadied him, kept him from the worst without saying a word, simply holding him and refusing to allow the madness to take him. Gawain did not dare to wonder what he would have done if he had ever lost Galahad.

"Thank you," he whispered, and Galahad smiled and tightened his arms around him.

"The pleasure is all mine," he murmured, pressing a kiss into Gawain's unruly hair. Gawain smiled against his chest, drinking in his comforting warmth and the reassuring sound of his heart; no use losing himself to memories of madness, not while his beloved rock was still here with him, blessedly alive and breathing. 

As Lhuned's time drew near, she continued stubbornly to refuse to allow the Woads' healer-woman near her. Instead, she insisted that only Vanora should help her; the healers from the fortress had all gone south with the Romans, but Vanora, having borne twelve children by now, was more than experienced in the art of childbirth. Vanora readily agreed, her kind heart and mother's instinct swift to help the stubborn girl to bear her fatherless child.

Gawain and Galahad found that Lhuned was somewhat more open to offers of assistance in the days leading up to her baby's arrival. They brought her food and water and she accepted them, not exactly with thanks, but not with her customary sullenness either. She allowed them to fetch and carry for her, and on one occasion when she found herself unable to walk back from the communal fire to her hut, she allowed Gawain to carry her, although she was plainly frustrated at her own weakness.

When the pains finally began, Galahad ran for Vanora while Gawain stayed with Lhuned, enduring her curses on all men and hoping that Vanora could come straight away. He offered her a hand to hold as one of the contractions began, and soon regretted it as she squeezed with a strength he had not suspected she possessed. He was insanely relieved when Vanora arrived and promptly shooed him and Galahad outside. The relief lasted only a short while, until Lhuned began screaming and the two of them could do nothing but pace up and down, acutely aware that they could do nothing to ease her pain.

"I hate this," Galahad growled as yet another shriek rent the air. "I feel so helpless, and she's not even my woman."

Gawain grimaced. "I know. How long is this going to take?"

"If my sisters are anything to go by, we've got hours left yet."

"Wonderful. Come on, let's sit down. We can't pace here all day." Gawain sat, leaning against the wall of the hut and pulling Galahad down with him. They did not stay there for long, though, inexorably drawn to their feet again to pace up and down as they waited for news.

The hours dragged by, counted out by the screams and silences inside the hut until, after a particularly long and hoarse shriek from Lhuned, there was a brief silence and then a clear, high wail and Vanora's voice crooning in delight.

The child was a boy. Vanora placed him in his exhausted mother's arms and summoned in his adoptive uncles from their nervous pacing outside the door of the hut.

"Anyone would think you were both the father," she said teasingly. "Go on, I think she's tired enough that she won't snap your heads off."

Gawain and Galahad ducked into the hut, blinking against the darkness until they could make out Lhuned lying on the bed, illuminated by the glow of the torches. She looked up at them and smiled weakly, which they took as permission to perch on the edge of the bed and admire the baby. He was a healthy-looking little mite, with a shock of black hair and a pair of eyes the clear blue of all newborn babies, although they looked as though they would darken to brown soon enough. Exchanging a glance, the two knights shared their suspicions as to his father, but were careful not to say anything aloud.

"I'm going to call him Parsefal," said Lhuned, her voice surprisingly strong despite her exhaustion. "He will grow to be a valiant knight, like the man who should have been his father, like his true father and like his uncles." She smiled again. "I expect you two to teach him everything he needs to know."

"Gladly, my sister," said Gawain. "Neither he nor his mother will want for anything it is within our power to provide."

Lhuned's smile widened. "My brothers. You never give up. I do appreciate everything you've done for me, I'm just no good at telling you. I'll try not to be such a scold in future."

"You would have been my sister in truth, if Gareth had lived," said Gawain. "My brother loved you, and that is enough for me."

"And I had sisters back home in Sarmatia," added Galahad. "I miss their incessant nagging, so yours is much appreciated." He grinned at her and was surprised to hear her laugh in response; Lhuned never laughed. But then she never wept either, yet the tears on her face contradicted that statement as well. Perhaps the ice was melting; perhaps the long winter of her mourning was finally over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parsefal is based on the character Perceval/Parsefal from the legends of King Arthur. Some versions of the legend hint that he may be Gawain's son by the lady Ragnell, but here he is Gawain's adopted nephew instead; after all, Galahad isn't Lancelot's son in movieverse, and in this little AU Gawain certainly doesn't have a wife...


	8. A Puzzle Solved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parsefal wants a story in the middle of the night, and Gawain realises that if he can see the boy's likeness to the man who must have been his father, then others will too...

Gawain's nightmares came less often these days, but they were no less intense. They had changed from the dreams of his youth; now the faces of his brothers were not the only ones he saw. All those who had passed through their company of knights might appear, though his brothers were the most frequent, joined by those last three, Dagonet, Tristan and Lancelot. He could never remember the details when he awoke, only the overwhelming sense of loss.

Starting awake with a muffled cry, he found himself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes that he had last seen mere moments ago in his dream. Still half-asleep, he could do nothing but stare dumbly, until the owner of the eyes blinked slowly, long sooty lashes sweeping cheeks still fat with childhood, and the spell was broken.

"Parsefal?" Gawain murmured groggily. "What are you doing in here?"

"Couldn't sleep," the boy said, and Gawain sighed.

"Well, you can't stay here. Your mother will worry, if she wakes up and finds you not there." Reaching for his breeches, he gently disengaged Galahad's arm from around his chest and got out of bed. Dressing quickly, he turned his attention to his honorary nephew. "Come on then, you. Let's get you back to your mother before she wakes up."

The boy pouted a little, but he already knew that there was no point in arguing with his uncle Gawain. Galahad could usually be persuaded, eventually, but Gawain, once decided, was immovable. Stretching up his arms, Parsefal waited to be picked up.

Gawain scooped him up, settled him on one hip and ducked out of the hut into the chilly night air. Shivering, he was thankful that Lhuned's hut was only a short walk away. He pushed open the door and slipped inside. From the sound of her breathing, Lhuned was still asleep, and he had no wish to wake her, so he padded quietly over to Parsefal's cot and laid him down, covering him with his blankets. He ruffled the child's hair and made to leave, but Parsefal whimpered, and Gawain knelt beside the bed.

"What do you want then, little one?"

"Can't sleep. Want a story. Please?"

Gawain debated the wisdom of refusing, and decided that on balance, it was better to miss a little more sleep and tell Parsefal a story than to risk him making a fuss and waking his mother. Settling himself by the child's cot, he began in a hushed voice to tell Parsefal about his childhood on the plains of Sarmatia; the boy loved to hear about the wide, sweeping countryside, the little settlements, and above all the horses. He had only been speaking for a few minutes when he noticed that Parsefal had fallen asleep. Gently stroking the child's hair out of his face, he murmured a blessing upon his sleep and left the hut as silently as he had come.

Returning to his bed, he shed his breeches and crawled in beside Galahad, who snuggled up to him, still mostly asleep until he registered how cold Gawain was.

"Where you been?" he mumbled, evidently affronted by this chilly interloper in his nice warm bed.

"Taking Parsefal back to bed. The little one appeared in here; I woke up and found him. Then I had to tell him stories until he fell asleep again."

Galahad chuckled sleepily. "Little mischief. Ever persistent. Just like his father."

"It really is obvious, isn't it?" mused Gawain. "Anyone who knew him only has to look at Parsefal to see it. Lhuned need not have bothered keeping it a secret."

"I wonder what Arthur makes of it," said Galahad, waking up a little more. "Poor bastard. Really is rubbing his nose in it, isn't it?"

"It is. But what I don't understand is - when? Lancelot would never have betrayed Arthur, not while there was breath left in his body, so how in the name of the Goddess did Lhuned manage to get herself pregnant with his child?"

"Perhaps if he felt that he himself had been betrayed? We all saw how Guinevere was looking at Arthur before we got back to the fort - and how she was looking at him the day of the battle. Like the cat that got the cream. I would wager my life that she bedded him that night."

"True. So...do you think Lancelot knew? Or found out? Goddess, I hope for his sake that he didn't see them. He was already tearing himself to bits over them; to see them would have been the final straw."

"I think he might have done," said Galahad thoughtfully. "I mean, we can't have been the only ones who noticed that Arthur came to the wall with her running after him; Lancelot must have noticed it too. I can't think of anything else that would have made him take another woman to his bed. Although I'm surprised at Lhuned. I wouldn't have thought she'd have stood for it."

"What, being substitute for another woman? Or for a man?" Gawain paused, thinking. "I'm not so sure. She's lonely. Always has been. She won't ever admit it, but...if Lancelot had offered, and you know how persuasive he could be, I'm not sure that she'd have said no."

"I promise not to tell her you said that," laughed Galahad. "But seriously, you think that night...he spent his last night on this earth with Lhuned, not with Arthur. Not that he knew it at the time, but - if we've worked it out, I'm willing to bet Arthur has."

"And knowing Arthur, he's torturing himself about it." Gawain paused again. "You know, I often forget how lucky we are."

Galahad looked at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation, and Gawain smiled, kissing him gently. "We're both still here, and no meddling woman to sow strife between us - except Lhuned, and I think we know how to handle her." He smiled and moved a little closer, drawing Galahad into his arms. "And we're very, very lucky that Parsefal is as yet too young to wonder why we share a bed."

Galahad laughed. "I hadn't thought of it that way. Perhaps we need to start barring the door at night."

"That is a very, very good idea," said Gawain, slowly kissing his way down Galahad's chest. "We're safe for tonight, I don't think he'll wake up again, but tomorrow night we bar the door." 

Galahad arched his back, hissing as Gawain's still-cold fingers followed his mouth, stroking gently over Galahad's ribs. "Cold! - ah! - definitely!," he gasped, pulling the blankets up around them as Gawain reached his objective and proceeded to render him thoroughly incapable of speech. His last thought before thinking also became impossible was that he was in many ways a very lucky man indeed.


	9. (interlude) A Knife to the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parsefal's paternity is painfully obvious to Arthur, and he cannot help but wonder how it could ever have happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay! My intention was to post a chapter every Sunday...unfortunately, real life has been intervening with a vengeance these past few weeks. This is only a short interlude, and I'm now about to go away for a few days, so you may not get an update this coming Sunday - but I promise to do my best to get back to a regular posting schedule at the end of next week!
> 
> While I'm at it, half-way through the story or thereabouts, thank you to all of you who have visited, read, left kudos and commented on this story. It's still one of my favourites and holds a special place in my heart, and knowing that others are enjoying it really makes my day.

Arthur watches as Gawain begins to teach his adopted nephew how to handle a little wooden practice sword. There is no need to wonder who the child's father was, for it is as clear as day. The shock of black hair, the dark brown eyes; there was only ever one in the fortress who could claim that precise combination of colouring. And Arthur had believed he was his alone. 

Every sight of the child is like a knife to Arthur's heart, even now when more than five years have passed. He cannot help but wonder how it happened. Lancelot had discreetly shared his bed every night when they were at the fort. Every night except one. That one last night when Guinevere had warmed his bed instead, had that been the night? Had Lancelot known about her and gone to find himself a woman too?

There is only one now alive who could answer that question, and Arthur knows he will never ask it of her. In truth, he does not want to know, for to know would be finally to shatter the illusion that Lancelot had only ever been his. He knows that his lover had felt something very strong for Guinevere, but he never got the chance to find out what it was, whether it could have worked. Death had stolen Lancelot from him before he had been able to ask.

And now Lancelot's son laughs and shouts and demands to be carried on Gawain's shoulders back to his mother's hut. The woman will never acknowledge her son's paternity, Arthur knows that much about her, and he wonders what Lancelot would have done, had he lived. Most likely he'd have tried to do the best by her, all the while crucifying himself with his guilt.

If he had lived. Arthur suspects that his manipulative wife would have found a way for them all to have what they wanted. She knows of the love between Arthur and his lieutenant, and it does not worry her. She comforted him in those long, desolate weeks after the battle, she brought him light and relief, and she wept with him, for it seems that she loved Lancelot too. Loved him, or wanted him; with her, the two seem one and the same. Guinevere is wise beyond her years, and she would surely have unravelled the web of guilt and anger that had woven itself between them, trapping them further apart from each other the more they struggled against it. If Lancelot had only lived.

But he did not, and Arthur knows that he must come to terms with it, must stop living his life half in dreams of what might have been. He has a united people to lead, a strong and loving wife to help him, and if as yet he has no son, what of it? A child will come to them when the time is right. And perhaps by that time he will be able to look at Lancelot's son without the bitter sting of regret in his heart.


	10. Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parsefal is becoming more and more like his father every day - and more and more like someone else, too, someone who has been gone far longer. Meanwhile, Gawain appears to be the only one besides Vanora who can keep track of all those children...

By the time he was eight years old, Parsefal was a better rider than any of the other children in the settlement. He had chosen his own pony, a spirited creature that Gawain and Galahad feared would be too much for him, and had proceeded to make friends with it straight away; it only quieted for him. Both boy and pony shared a mischievous streak, and both were absolutely fearless. Parsefal had fallen off several times, but every time would be fretting to get back on before his injuries were even half-healed. He spent every waking moment with his pony, and if his mother had not put her foot down he would probably have slept in its stall at night.

Gawain leaned against the fence and watched the lad careering round the practice field, hotly pursued by Bors' fourth-youngest, and found himself thinking of someone else, someone long gone. "He looks so like Gareth," he murmured, shading his eyes against the sun. 

"I see what you mean," said Galahad, who was sitting on the fence and swinging his legs, a habit he had never grown out of. "I mean, he's dark, not blond, but otherwise... Wonder where he gets it from."

"It's like looking at my brother all over again, at that age. I have to keep telling myself that it isn't - and that it can't be Gareth's son."

"I know." Galahad rested a hand on Gawain's shoulder. "If it's any consolation, he probably gets it from you. You taught him to ride, after all, and you taught Gareth and Gaheris, too."

"And my father taught all of us." Gawain closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of home. "I wonder what happened to them. I don't even know if the Romans ever came for Agravaine; Gareth and Gaheris were the last to come here, but they might still have come for him, sent him somewhere else. And they never knew what happened to any of us; for all they know we all died here."

Galahad squeezed Gawain's shoulder. "I wonder too...I was so eager to go home, once, to go and find that my village had been entirely overrun by my sisters' children." He grinned but sobered again almost instantly. "But what would be the point? I've changed too much, even if I'd reached home I would never have settled back there. Even if they're still there."

"I know. After all, how do we know that the Romans didn't decide to have another go at annihilating our people, now that we knights are out of the way? Arthur might say that Rome has been drawing in upon herself for decades, but it doesn't stop me wondering."

"Our fathers would have given them a fight, though," said Galahad, his tone reassuring. "Once a knight, always a knight." 

Gawain shrugged. "True, I suppose. Still, for all that our home is here now, I wish that I might see them once more. I want so much to tell them that I still live, and that Gareth and Gaheris died bravely. I want them to see Parsefal." He stopped abruptly, and Galahad slipped an arm around his shoulders.

"I know. They would be proud of you all; and Parsefal would be as a grandson to them. You're a good man, Gawain, and you bring honour to your family even if they will never know it."

Gawain closed his eyes for a moment, pulling himself together, then he smiled. "You're biased," he said, and Galahad grinned back.

"True. But I'm not lying, either. Of all Arthur's knights, you were always one of the best. Second only to me, of course."

Gawain cuffed Galahad round the head. "Insolent whelp!"

"Watch yourself, old man," Galahad retorted, "or I won't be so nice to you again."

"Promises, promises," said Gawain, and they returned their attention to the boys in the field, the shadow of homesickness all but gone.

"Which one of Bors' brats is that, anyway?" Gawain wondered after a few moments.

"I think it's either Eight or Nine," said Galahad, furrowing his brow and trying to focus on the boy as he thundered past.

"Can't be Eight," Gawain returned. "Eight's a girl. At least, I think she's Eight."

"Ah. Must be Nine then."

"Must be."

"Didn't I hear Bors saying something about giving them all names at one point?"

Gawain laughed. "They did, I think. Except that nobody except Vanora could remember them. I'm not sure that Bors remembers which one is which number, any more than we can. Apart from Gilly, of course. I think Vanora's the only one who really knows which one is which."

Galahad grinned. "I think you're right. How does anyone keep track of twelve children anyway, I'd like to know. Makes me glad we only have one to worry about."

"Thirteen," Gawain corrected him. "Vanora's youngest is a couple of years younger than Parsefal. And you're right. One is quite enough."

"How do you know how many there are, anyway?" Galahad wanted to know. 

"I pay attention," said Gawain in a gently rebuking tone.

"So you're not in fact a gossiping old woman?" taunted Galahad, earning himself another cuff around the head.

"I am not. I just know what's going on around me. Which is more than I can sometimes say for you."

Galahad huffed at that and turned his attention back to the boys again, although when Gawain hoisted himself onto the fence beside him, he did not complain and even, after a suitable length of time had passed in which to convey his affrontedness, rested his head upon Gawain's shoulder.

Gawain smiled. There was no use in wishing things were otherwise, in the end. His parents would have welcomed Galahad as a son, but they would never have understood the nature of the bond they shared. There would have been wives, presented in such a way that refusal would not be an option, and they would have had to live apart. No, it was better here. He had lost one family, perhaps, but gained another, one that he was determined never to lose. They were unconventional, perhaps, but they were happy, and that was all that mattered.


	11. (interlude) Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lhuned thinks on those who have been dear to her: her beloved son, the man who should have been father to her boy, her unexpected, adopted brothers...and a man who was not dear to her at all although he gave her a gift she could never have looked for, a gift that brought others in its wake and brought her from her self-imposed exile back into life again.

Lhuned has to smile, now, when she thinks of those years at the fortress, miserable though she thought she was at the time. Gareth made her happy, for a while, and of course she acquired her two doting older brothers, though that was more through persistence on their part than acquiescence on hers.

It has been sixteen long years now since she lost her Gareth. She misses him still, every day a sharp reminder that he no longer draws breath, is no longer beside her with his easy humour and ready smile. She turned herself into stone after he died, cut herself off from everything and everyone that tried to get close, that would hurt her in the end. The lovers she took among the knights were few and far between, and she felt nothing for them. She has taken no one to her bed since that fateful first battle with the Saxons. The knights are all dead, of course, and the few that aren't are either married or as good as. None of them could ever have been a worthy substitute for her Gareth, and besides, where would she find the time for a lover, with an eight-year-old son to be looking after? She fancies herself too old for love, or that kind at least, but she is no longer the rock she thought she was, devoid of feelings and isolated from the world. All her love is saved for her boy, and for her brothers, for she does love those two, in her own way.

They are endlessly good to her and to her son, far above and beyond the call of duty; Gawain has transferred onto her and Parsefal all his love and loyalty for his lost brothers, for the parents he will never see again. And Galahad sees in her his much-beloved, if often only barely tolerated, older sisters, following as always where Gawain leads. She would never have thought, before, that she would be so grateful to have a pair of brothers; her sister Leonys was always far more than enough. But then Leonys went off and was married, and left Lhuned alone, an island in the river that was the constantly changing population of the fort.

It is only now that she feels able to admit to herself that she was lonely; but Gawain always saw it, always made the time to speak to her and make sure she was all right. So like his brother, but more serious, less carefree; definitely the oldest. And Galahad, always flirting and joking, making her laugh sometimes, despite herself.

She is under no illusions about the father of her son. Everyone knew that Lancelot had eyes only for Arthur. He only came to her because Arthur was with the princess of the Woads that night, she knew that straight away from the fury in his eyes. She had happened to be in the tavern when he stormed in demanding wine; he had seen her and come to share the flagon, though why he had chosen her she never knew. Then the next thing she knew they were in his quarters and his anger had caught alight and he was pushing her down on the bed, clumsily pushing up her skirt and muttering something about duplicitous women. Lhuned had sensed that this was what he needed, or thought he needed, and unusually for her she did not have the heart to turn him away; she understood what it was like to lose the other half of yourself. She had been half drunk by then, or she might have tried to calm him down, make him talk, but she knew he wouldn't respond, so she let him do as he wanted; secretly she had rather wondered what he was like in the bedchamber, and even with his fury and disillusionment driving his every move he remembered her pleasure, and she was not disappointed. He had quieted at last, and lay in her arms murmuring broken half-sentences about betrayal and love and things he could never have. She had held him and stroked his hair, and felt strangely close to him although she really didn't know him very well at all.

And then the Saxons had come, and she had found herself heading south with the people of the fort, escorted by the knights and the Bishop's garrison, feeling as though something within her was tearing in two with every step away from her home and the place where her Gareth was sleeping. She had watched the knights arm themselves and ride to join their commander on the ridge, but she had kept walking as the sounds of battle drifted to her from behind the wall.

And when it was all over, when the dead had been counted and named, she had felt nothing; when her courses did not come and she began to feel sick every morning, still nothing moved her; when they left the fort for good, her numbness barely lifted at the thought of leaving Gareth behind. She refused to think about the baby, even though ignoring it could never make it go away, until Gawain and his gentle questioning coaxed the barest bones of the story out of her. She knows that he and Galahad know who the father was; and she would have to be blind not to see the barely concealed anguish in Arthur's eyes every time he looks at her son. But he never asks her, and for that she is obscurely grateful. It is not her place to judge his actions, for the circumstances are something she knows nothing about; but she cannot help but feel some small sympathy for Lancelot. Parsefal is a lot like him, in character as well as looks, but sometimes he will come out with something that reminds her sharply of her Gareth, and she will have to stop for a moment and take a deep breath before she can continue with what she was doing. It is strange indeed, and common sense tells her he must be picking it up from Gawain, but something within her wants to believe that Gareth is with her still, somehow, and she finds Parsefal's presence a comfort far beyond the fact that he is her son and she loves him with all that is in her. She has never forgotten her Gareth, and perhaps he has not forgotten her either, in the place where only the dead can go.


	12. Farewells, Hopes and Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Saxons return, the army rides to war, and Lhuned bids farewell to her brothers. And she remembers another farewell, the day she said goodbye to her Gareth for the last time.

In the spring of Parsefal's tenth year, the Saxons returned in earnest. They had retreated after the battle of Badon Hill and had not troubled Britain's shores for three years or so while they regained their strength, and for seven years after that they had only made swift coastal raids. Trying to lull the Britons into a sense of security, Arthur said, but he was no fool and nor was Merlin. They remained on their guard, sending out bands of warriors to dispatch as many raiding parties as they could, and so for those ten years there was a semblance of peace in the settlement; closer, in fact, to peace than most of the inhabitants could remember. The Romans had gone, and with them had gone the hostility between the Romano-British and the Woads, for the most part, at least.

Lhuned still retained her distrust of the Woads, but her bitter hatred of them had eased as her son had grown up. She had enough sense to realise that she could not change her circumstances and she was slowly learning to live with the people who had taken her Gareth from her. The others who had lived at the fortress were more or less integrated with the tribespeople and Arthur and Guinevere's dream of a united British people seemed to be inching ever closer to reality.

The Saxon was the common enemy now, and when word reached the settlement that a fleet of Saxon ships as large as Cerdic's had been sighted off the coast, the army that set out was comprised of members of all the various tribes, several of the men from the fortress and other Roman settlements, and the three remaining Sarmatian knights.

Lhuned had said her farewells to her brothers in private shortly before they readied themselves to leave; she still guarded her composure in front of others but she was learning to be a little more open with Galahad and Gawain. She had hugged them both to her, holding them tightly and fiercely whispering "Come back to me", swallowing sudden tears as they each kissed her brow and promised to return as soon as they could.

Parsefal had sulked a little, knowing he was too young to go and fight but not entirely happy with the idea of staying at home with his mother, but he had pulled himself together enough to bid his uncles farewell, permitting them to hug him and ruffle his hair and requesting a Saxon head as a souvenir. They had laughed, and Gawain had promised him the head of the highest-ranking Saxon he could find.

As the army rode away, Lhuned raised a hand in farewell, refusing to believe that this could be the last time she might see her brothers and summoning a smile as they turned to wave before they rode out of sight down the valley. Although she had watched them ride away to fight many times since they had come to live here, never had she been more reminded of the day she had said goodbye to her Gareth for the last time.

Theirs had been an odd friendship, she now realised. She had been as obnoxious to him as she knew how to be, trying to drive him away even though that was the last thing she really wanted. But he would not be put off, and they had become friends as they grew up together, though even then she often could not keep herself from scolding him. But Gareth had just smiled and borne her railing in silence until she ran out of breath; then he would pull her down to sit beside him and they would sit in silence, watching the world go by.

Leonys and Gaheris had been different; they were often to be discovered coming out of the stables with straw sticking out of their hair and clothes, but Lhuned had always suspected that their passion would have cooled with the passing of years. Leonys had always been the flighty one of the two sisters; but she and Gaheris had never had the chance to find out what the future might have held for them.

Gaheris, meanwhile, might have been the brasher of the two brothers, but Gareth was no less confident. He just went about things more quietly. One sunny afternoon in early autumn, six months or so before that last fateful battle, he had persuaded Lhuned away from her chores for a walk in the woodland near the fort. They had scrambled up a tree and sat hidden in the branches, listening to the birdsong and each other's breathing, and when Gareth turned her to face him and leaned forward to kiss her she had closed her eyes and kissed him back, secretly amazed that she could be a part of something so gentle, so soft and amazing and wonderful. Her smile and her eyes, still closed even after he drew away, told Gareth that he had done the right thing, and from then on they had been friends no longer, though they were never quite lovers, something that Lhuned had regretted ever since. They had contrived to meet in out-of-the-way places as regularly as they could over the six months that followed, but they had never taken that last step, and Lhuned had regretted it ever since. 

She had been seventeen, and Gareth had been dead for two years, by the time she let Balin take her maidenhead, and it had been nothing like she had hoped; Balin had none of Gareth's gentle sweetness, though he was not rough with her, and she had sealed off her heart even more, refusing to acknowledge the hurt that she felt. Her precious memories of Gareth she kept deep within her, forgetting nothing, not even the moment when she had come running into the stable square to see Gawain lifting two limp bodies from Gaheris' horse; Galahad had been at his side and Gawain had worn an expression of such brokenness on his face that she had known as soon as she set eyes on him that Gareth and Gaheris were dead and all her hopes were shattered.

She hoped with all that lay in her that her brothers would return safely; that she would not see Gawain bearing Galahad's body upon his horse, or Galahad bringing Gawain on one last journey home. Or worse...she could not bear to think of the possibility that they both might fall. She had resisted their friendship for so long, yet now she did not know what she would do without them. And as for Parsefal, they were the only fathers he had known. Her mind shied away from the thought that this time they might not come back.

The months passed, the leaves budded, opened and fell, the children grew and played and fought as if nothing was wrong; but the adults left behind existed in a state of constant tension, nerves and tempers stretched almost to breaking point. Lhuned found herself becoming as foul-tempered as she had been in the first weeks of the new kingdom, and frequently had to bite her tongue before she snapped at Parsefal for small pieces of mischievousness that deserved no more than a gentle correction. The boy seemed not to share his mother's fears. He simply believed, with his childish faith in the constancy of grown-ups, that his uncles would return safe and well with the Saxon head they had promised him. Lhuned envied him his certainty; with every week that passed she grew more afraid that they were not coming back.

Summer faded into autumn and those left behind tried still harder to convince themselves that all was well, that the army was only gone so long because they were driving every last accursed Saxon from Britain's shores. Vanora, seasoned veteran of all Bors' campaigns, tried to reassure Lhuned, but she could not disguise the growing worry in her eyes, the new strands of white among the autumn gold of her hair.

It was a damp day in late September when the army returned, the last summer sunshine dead and gone and all but forgotten. They rode slowly into the valley, not decimated but certainly fewer than when they set out. Arthur rode at their head, wearing every one of his years in the set of his jaw, the exhausted slump of his shoulders. There was more than one litter bearing wounded, and Lhuned saw too many riderless horses being led home.

She stood with the growing crowd of villagers, one hand on Parsefal's shoulder for support; though she would have denied it to her last breath, she found this culmination of all her months of anxiety almost too much to bear. She scanned the army for those two dear faces, hardly daring to look too hard. She soon made out Galahad, his still-boyish face drawn with exhaustion, and she felt her heart stop within her as she saw that he was riding alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hideous cliffhanger, I know, but allow me to repeat once more: nobody who is alive at the end of the movie dies in this story. I promise. :)


	13. A Long Campaign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While those left behind waited and watched, Arthur's army found no lightning victory over the Saxons this time; instead, their long, gruelling campaign took them to the shores of the Narrow Sea and back before they finally engaged the invaders in battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warnings on this story come into play again in this chapter: there is (rather graphic) depiction of fighting and serious injury to one of the main characters.

The campaign against the Saxons took longer than anyone had expected. No lightning victory this time, just months of skirmishes and raids, constantly on the move tracking down the bands of invaders. Gawain and Galahad had both sustained minor wounds, sword-cuts and arrow-grazes, more irritating than serious, but they had both inflicted worse on the enemy. It had been a hard-fought, gruelling campaign, taking them down the east coast of Britain past Londinium to the shores of the Narrow Sea. The scouts were stretched to their limits, ranging as far as they could, riding hard with news of another landing here, and another there. Not for the first time, Gawain thought with regret of Tristan; they needed him now as they never had before. 

Eventually news came of a large contingent of Saxon ships bearing near to the flat lands above the Wash and Arthur ordered his army to march north again. There was an unspoken feeling among the soldiers that this would be the decisive battle, the one that would see off the invaders for a few more years or put an end to their brief dream of a kingdom of Britain.

As they drew nearer to the coast, Galahad seemed to become more and more edgy, his nerves constantly raw. Even Gawain, who was normally calm and steady, felt strangely unsettled.

"I don't like this countryside," Galahad muttered, steering his horse a little closer to Gawain's. "It's not natural. Too flat. Gives me the shivers."

"I know what you mean," Gawain returned. "Still, at least there are no hills or trees for the bastards to hide behind."

"True. Just marshland for us to fall into."

"Not if we stick to the path. Besides, they'll be just as unfamiliar with the terrain as we are, if not more so. I noticed Arthur recruiting a few local guides earlier; they'll tell us where's safe."

"You hope," Galahad grunted. "I just hope we draw battle lines on slightly more solid ground. I'm not looking forward to fighting on this stuff." 

"I think we can trust Arthur and Merlin to choose a good battlefield," Gawain said reassuringly, and Galahad grunted again.

"I just bloody hope so, that's all I'm saying." He leaned forward to pat his horse's neck, as much for his comfort as the animal's; she was as placid and well-behaved as ever, showing none of her rider's anxiety.

They rode out of the marshes at length and Arthur called for camp to be pitched on a low rise of ground. A double guard was posted and the army settled down to a sleepless night.

Gawain and Galahad lay awake for many hours in the tent they shared, once their shift on guard was over. They did not speak, but they both felt the weight of expectation and uncertainty. What use were words now, when they had never needed them before? Why make the possibility of death more real by speaking of it? If this battle were to be the end of all they had shared, words would change nothing. Instead they lay curled together, listening to the steady rhythm of each other's heartbeat and breathing, each of them carefully imprinting on his mind the warmth of the other's skin, the softness of his hair, the comfort of his presence.

Eventually they drifted into a fitful sleep, from which the dawn woke them all too quickly. They crawled from the tent and dressed in the half-light, arming each other as they had done from their first day of combat training in Britannia, so many years ago now. Every piece of armour, every buckle was part of the ritual, every fastening and weapon double-checked before they deemed each other ready for battle. A brief, fierce embrace was all the concession they made to this strangest of mornings, a kiss searing and swift before they went to ready their horses and report to their commander.

They met Bors on the way, and so the last three knights came to Arthur together, giving him a simple salute as they awaited his orders. Galahad couldn't help noticing that Arthur was beginning to look his age, after so long campaigning, and he felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. He had been without Lancelot for ten long years now; Galahad could not begin to imagine life without Gawain, and he fervently hoped that he would never have to confront such a prospect. Then he put the thought away from him and gave Arthur his full attention.

The briefing was soon over; they knew each other's skills and fighting styles so well by now that Arthur barely needed to tell them what to do. They were all excellent strategists when it came to the Saxons, learned through the long years of campaigns, and they knew the best ways to defeat their enemy. Galahad sent a brief prayer to the Horse Mother and the Father of Battles that it would be enough.

"This is it then, lads," said Bors when Arthur had finished. "Let's get this over and done with so we can get home. Vanora's going to kill me for being away so long, no need to let these bastards do it for her."

"She'd only kill you for getting killed by someone other than her," Galahad grinned, grateful for Bors' ready humour even in the face of such a battle, and Bors shrugged and smiled.

"True, true. Woman after my own heart. Come on then, let's get on with it."

And they mounted up and rode with Arthur at the head of the army, towards the place where the scouts had reported that the Saxons had made camp.

They soon came upon them, already drawn up in battle lines. The formalities were brief and to the point. Arthur requested the Saxon's chieftain to remove his men from the shores of Arthur's kingdom; the Saxon refused, and Arthur drew his sword and called for the charge. The Woads raised their voices and howled, the Romano-British shouted, and Gawain and Galahad echoed Bors' great bellow of their own ancestral war cry as they spurred their horses forward into the fray.

It was a savage battle, very different from fighting the Woads in the distant past. The Saxons were big men, heavily armed and strong, but the British had the advantage of their widely differing fighting styles to keep the enemy on their toes. The Woads were lithe and quick, and utterly fearless, darting in and gutting or garrotting their opponents almost before the Saxons had a chance to move. The Romano-British were well-drilled, working in small units and fighting almost as one man; and the Sarmatians had the advantage of their horses, which were just as much a weapon as their swords and shields, slashing fiercely with their hooves as they reared and plunged.

Gawain and Galahad fought close together, as they always had, working systematically together to remove as many Saxons as they could from the battle. Bitter experience had taught Gawain that it was as well not to become separated from those you loved on the battlefield, lest they need your help when you could not reach them, and so whenever possible it was his habit to make sure he was no more than a few yards from Galahad, and Galahad, understanding his logic without needing to be told, always stayed close. They were efficient fighters and a deadly team.

Arrows rained down upon the Saxon lines from the band of British archers who were stationed some way off behind the main press of their army. Guinevere and her people had taught all those in the settlement who wished to learn to draw a bow like a Woad, training them hard, and they were all excellent shots; many of the enemy fell, pierced by several arrows at once, and did not get up again. Galahad and Gawain dodged and ducked around the arrows as best they could as they pressed further into the Saxon army, hacking about them to carve a path through and try to separate their forces enough for the British footsoldiers to follow and surround them. It was a long and close-fought operation, but when Galahad risked a glance around him, sometime around mid-morning, he thought that it looked as though the Saxons were diminishing in number. He turned back to flash a grin at Gawain, just in time to see him take a Saxon spear to the shoulder and sway in the saddle. Swearing, Galahad moved his horse close enough to reach out and grasp the spear as Gawain roared in pain and slashed out with his sword at the nearest Saxon, nearly decapitating the man in his fury.

"Pull it out," Gawain grated, and Galahad blanched. He had not had to do such a thing in some time, and certainly never when the patient was still on horseback and intently defending himself with his good arm.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and immediately felt stupid for asking.

"Of course I'm sure. Just do it bloody quickly, I can't very well fight with this thing sticking out of me."

"All right then," said Galahad, trying to sound confident, more for his own benefit than for Gawain's. He grasped the spear again, the point of which was just showing through Gawain's shoulder, braced his free hand on Gawain's back and pushed until the spearhead appeared fully. He drew his dagger and hacked off the spearhead, then began to pull the spear back through, but stopped when he realised how much the wound was going to bleed. "I can't pull it out, you'll bleed to death," he said, trying not to sound as worried as he felt.

Gawain, still fighting the Saxons that were crowding around them, although a small detachment of Britons had come to their aid and were seeing off most of their attackers, growled deep in his throat. "Well, do something with it! Cut the length of it off, and just leave enough to grip onto. Then you can pull it out later. Just do it quickly, because we're going to need you fighting again before too long."

Wondering why he hadn't thought of that solution, Galahad did as he was told, cutting through the spear's shaft and promptly using it as an improvised quarterstaff to brain an opportunistic Saxon who was sneaking up on him. Jabbing it into the man's throat for good measure, he let it fall and turned his attention back to fighting in earnest.

The Saxon chieftain had already called the retreat when it happened. Not all of his men had heard him, and the message was taking its time crossing the battlefield to where Galahad and Gawain were still fighting. A footsoldier slashed out at Gawain's horse, catching him across the hindquarters, and the animal reared, startled. Tired and weakened by bloodloss, Gawain was not quick enough to react, and before he could stop himself he had tumbled from his horse's back, landing with a heavy thump on the ground. The horse bolted and Gawain lay half-stunned for a moment, just long enough for the man who had attacked his horse to stab down at him with his sword.

Galahad, who had seen everything and had already brought up his sword to defend Gawain, yelling furiously, was not quite quick enough to stop him. 

Gawain had begun to roll out of the way of the sword, but it caught him across the small of his back. 

Galahad swung his sword and severed the Saxon's sword-arm, bringing his blade back up and cutting the man down. 

Robbed of breath and paralysed by the pain, Gawain could only flop back again and lie still.

Galahad brought his horse around to stand beside Gawain, frantically defending him from the last few Saxons and alternating yelling for reinforcements with raining curses on his attackers.

"Leave him alone, you bastards! I'll kill you all!" he cried, slipping from his horse and greeting the band of Britons who were arriving with a wild-eyed, desperate look. 

"The battle's over, sir!" one of them shouted. "The Saxons are retreating! We'll take this lot as prisoners! You look after Sir Gawain."

Galahad needed no further telling. Dropping to his knees, he smoothed Gawain's hair from his still face and willed himself to calm enough to check for a pulse. He did not dare to think what he would do if he found none.

He could not find the place for a moment, and was beginning to panic when he found it, fluttering under his fingers, faint but there. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, he managed to calm himself enough to look around; his reinforcements had made short work of the remaining Saxons, binding their hands and holding them at swordpoint.

"Where's Bors?" he demanded. "I can't carry him on my own."

"I'm here, pup," came the familiar, gruff voice from behind him, and for a moment Galahad felt almost like weeping, so relieved was he that his old friend was all right and here to help him, just like he always had been. Except that things had never been this severe before. Gawain had never been lying so sorely wounded, and Galahad was finding it increasingly difficult not to panic.

Bors, seeing this, took charge and sent someone off to alert the healers, then bent and scooped Gawain into his arms as if he weighed no more than one of Bors' youngest children. "Come on, pup," he said to Galahad. "Let's get him off this bloody field and into the clutches of a medicus, or what passes for one around here."

Galahad nodded and obeyed, grateful beyond words that he no longer had to cope with everything. He gently prised Gawain's fingers from his sword and carried it with his own as he trailed behind Bors, leading his horse. Even the older man's outdated nickname for him, half-heartedly resented for a good twenty years, comforted him rather than irritated him today. Thank the Goddess for Bors, he thought as they picked their way across the field of bodies, trying not to step on or recognise anyone. 

Once they had delivered Gawain to the healers, Bors, knowing that Galahad would only hinder the process in the state he was in at the moment, forcibly removed him and took him off to see Arthur.

Their commander was seated in a hastily-erected tent with Merlin, a bandage across his left forearm and a fairly handsome bruise over his right eye. As Bors and Galahad ducked inside, they were discussing the terms that they would present to the Saxons, but they fell silent at the sight of the two knights.

"Where's Gawain?" asked Arthur, his brow already furrowed with concern.

"With the healers," said Bors before Galahad could formulate an answer. "Took a spear to the shoulder and a sword to the back. So I brought the pup here before he drove them all mad."

"I see," said Arthur, completely failing to hide his worry as usual. "And Galahad-?"

There was a short silence, until Galahad realised that he was being addressed. "Oh. Sorry, Arthur. I'm fine. I think. Just...just worried," he tailed off, and Arthur nodded understandingly.

"Of course. Well, I'm sure the healers will let you sit with him once they've finished. Meanwhile, I need your advice, both of you, on the terms Merlin and I plan to issue to the enemy."

And he drew the pair of them into the discussion, not allowing Galahad too much time to brood, although he was too worried to make much sense when asked for his opinion. Eventually they took pity on him and let him go, and he stumbled across the makeshift camp that had sprung up while he was in Arthur's tent. When he reached the healers' enclosure, he was greeted by one of the most senior of the Woads' healers who informed him that they had done all that they could for Sir Gawain for the moment, and that he was currently sedated and sleeping. "You may sit with him, but do not disturb him," the woman said firmly, and Galahad nodded mutely; seeing that she was not going to get any more sense out of him she relented and escorted him inside one of the tents, where in the dim light he could just make out Gawain's familiar shape lying on a straw mattress. The healer left him alone, and Galahad found that his legs would no longer carry him. Dropping to his knees, he stretched out beside Gawain, pillowing his head on his arms.

"You had better recover," he whispered brokenly. "I don't know what I'd do without you." Then, finally having voiced his terror and his truest feelings, he settled down to watch over the most precious thing in his life, hoping against hope that all would be well.


	14. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galahad brings Gawain home to heal.

Riding into the valley, Galahad wearily surveyed the gathering crowd, looking for his sister. He spotted her at the same moment that she noticed him, and he knew immediately what she was thinking by the look on her face: that same unguarded, stricken expression that had burned itself into his memory eighteen years ago in the courtyard at the fortress, when she had stumbled upon him and Gawain unloading two broken bodies from a masterless horse.

Galahad nudged his weary horse into a trot, anxious to reach her as quickly as possible and assuage her fears, wipe that terrible lost expression from her face. Swinging himself down from the saddle, he gripped her shoulders, shaking her gently. "It's all right. It's all right, he's here. Wounded, but he'll live. He's in that litter over there." He gestured to the litter beside which he had been riding, then pulled Lhuned into a quick, fierce hug, as much for his own comfort as for hers. He felt a shiver run through her as she pulled herself together, and he loosed his arms about her as she stepped back out of his embrace.

"Well. Let's get him settled and seen to," she said firmly, setting off in the direction of Gawain's litter; no one who did not know her would have noticed the slight brittle edge to her voice. Galahad followed obediently, with Parsefal trailing behind; he spared a smile for the boy and bent to hug him as they reached their goal.

"Will Uncle Gawain be all right?" Parsefal whispered in Galahad's ear, careful not to let his mother hear.

Galahad forced himself to smile reassuringly, hiding the panic that still threatened to break free at any minute whenever he thought about the possibility that Gawain might not get better. "He'll be fine," he said, hoping that Parsefal was not astute enough to see through his mask. "He's got some resting and mending to do, but he'll be as good as new before you know it."

Parsefal nodded, accepting what he was told, and reached his arms out to Galahad for another hug. Galahad gave it gladly, with the definite impression that his nephew was comforting him, not the other way around. 

It had been an awful few weeks. They had stayed encamped near the battlefield for a few days while Arthur and Merlin negotiated with the Saxons and the wounded began to heal. Bors had gone with Arthur, "as backup in case the mangy bastards try anything," as he put it, but Galahad had refused to leave Gawain and Arthur had wisely not pressed the issue. So Galahad had found himself spending all his time in the healers' quarters, doing what he could for Gawain but mostly trying not to get in the way.

Gawain's horse had been found wandering not far from the battlefield, and Galahad had taken on his care as well as that of his own mount, which gave him something to do, but nothing occupied him enough to take his mind off the fact that his Gawain was lying barely conscious in a tent and nobody would say whether or not he would live.

On the day after the battle Gawain had developed a mild fever which refused to break no matter what the healers did; he muttered in his delirium, calling for his brothers and for the knights lost in their service for Rome. Galahad sat by his pallet, gripping his hand and smoothing his hair out of his face, desperately hoping for some sign that his lover was returning to lucidity.

None came, and on the fifth day after the battle, when Arthur's negotiations had been concluded and the remnants of the Saxon army had sailed away, Galahad became aware of a hushed conversation between three of the healers in the corner of the tent. He deduced from the way they kept glancing over at Gawain that it in some way concerned him, so he got to his feet and joined them, anxious to know what they were discussing.

"The King wishes to strike camp and make for home," the senior healer began to explain, "and we are trying to establish whether Sir Gawain is well enough to travel. His wounds are closing well, and there is no sign of infection so far, but this fever worries us. I am afraid that if we move him it will aggravate his injuries and cause him further harm."

Galahad just looked at her, trying to suppress the cold fear that threatened to overwhelm him at her words. He had been doing his best not to give in to his terror that Gawain might not recover, but too often it rose and would not be pushed away.

The healer smiled and laid a hand on his arm. "Try not to worry. We will do our best for him, and if we decide that he is not well enough to be moved, then the King and all his army will have to delay their journey. Nobody will put one of my patients at risk, not even the King himself." Her tone was firm and sympathetic all at once, and Galahad managed the tiniest of smiles in response.

"Now go on with you, see to those horses or something while we change his dressings. And try not to worry," she repeated, and shooed him out of the tent.

Galahad did as he was told and saw to the horses, then he wandered aimlessly through the camp for a while. At home in the settlement, he would have sought refuge in the woods or on the hills, but there was nowhere here; the countryside extended, flat and featureless, for as far as the eye could see. Bors and Arthur were nowhere to be seen, and eventually he went back to the tent. The healers had finished with Gawain, so Galahad settled himself by the pallet again.

Two more days passed; Galahad suspected that the healers had had a word with Arthur, who would not have dreamed of endangering one of his oldest friends if he knew the full story. They had tried everything to bring Gawain's fever down, but so far to no avail. Eventually they had given Galahad a bucket of clean water and set him the task of trying to get Gawain to drink something and sponging him with cold cloths; they had all realised how anxious Galahad was, and reasoned that giving him something to do might help. 

It was mid-afternoon when Galahad noticed that Gawain's skin was no longer burning hot to the touch, and his breathing no longer rasped harshly but seemed to be settling into a deep, even rhythm. He smoothed the hair back from Gawain's forehead and paused, thinking he saw Gawain's eyelids flutter. It did not happen again for a moment, and Galahad was about to tell himself that he must have imagined it when  
Gawain blinked slowly and opened his eyes.

"Galahad?" he whispered, his voice dry and cracked, and Galahad reached for a cup to dip into the bucket of water. He tilted it gently to Gawain's lips, and Gawain drank gratefully.

"How are you feeling?" Galahad asked tentatively.

"Hurts," said Gawain. "My shoulder. And my back. Can't remember...I fell off my horse. And then nothing."

Hope leapt in Galahad's heart; Gawain sounded lucid, at least, and it seemed as though the fever had finally burned itself out. "You fell, and one of them nearly spitted you. Lucky you rolled out of the way and he only caught your back. I got him for you."

Gawain smiled tiredly. "Thanks. Where would I be without you?"

Galahad smiled too, but did not answer; it did not bear thinking about. "You've been sleeping since then. That, and feverish. Hence the cold cloths." He lifted one so that Gawain could see it, and was gratified to see the smallest twinkle of amusement in his lover's eyes.

"That would explain a lot," said Gawain, a twinge of pain flitting across his face. "I thought I walked beside my brothers."

"Not quite," Galahad replied, trying to silence the voice of fear in his heart. "Not yet."

"So when are we going home?" Gawain asked, changing the subject.

"Not until you're well enough to travel," Galahad told him, offering him the cup of water again. Gawain drank deeply and then spoke again.

"Probably for the best. Lhuned will most likely kill me for getting myself wounded as it is. Might as well wait until I'm well enough to stand up to her, at least a little bit." His tone was dry, and Galahad marvelled that he could make a joke of it so soon.

Gawain raised a hand weakly, and tried to reach for Galahad; he did not quite have the strength, but Galahad moved to sit upon the pallet, stretching his legs out and easing Gawain's head onto his lap. Gawain managed to shift a little, getting comfortable, and turned his cheek into Galahad's touch as Galahad stroked his hair out of his face, fingers trailing down his cheek.

"Sleepy," murmured Gawain, his eyes fluttering closed, and Galahad listened anxiously as his breathing deepened, only relaxing when it became apparent that Gawain was indeed sleeping his first true sleep since the day of the battle. 

Two days after that, the healers deemed him just about fit enough to travel, and the army set off, moving slowly across the miles, their progress hampered by the litters they carried bearing their wounded. The leaves were falling, and for the first time Galahad realised how long they had been away. Poor Lhuned would most likely have worried herself away inside by now, he mused; she would have closed herself off again, to everyone except Parsefal, at least, trying to shut the pain away inside. Poor girl. And here he was, bringing her beloved brother home, sorely wounded and not necessarily certain to live...but he would not think about that part; he could not. The terror rose again and he had to bite it back, force it down, staring grimly straight ahead and gripping the reins of his horse so tightly that he could feel his fingernails digging into his palms. The pain helped him focus on the present, and in a moment he felt calm enough to turn his head and glance at the litter in which Gawain was riding. The makeshift curtains (made of the cloaks of dead men, but Galahad would not think about that) were drawn back today, since the sun was shining, and he could see his lover clearly, see his face drawn and pinched with pain; but when Gawain looked over at him he flashed a grin that lit Galahad's world so brightly that for a moment his fear was forgotten and he could not help but smile back.

They stopped once in an apple orchard, abandoned by its owners in the face of the Saxon horde yet not looted, for the raiders had been defeated before they had got that far. Arthur ordered the army to halt and everyone picked as many apples as they could carry. Galahad sat beside Gawain's litter, placed under the shade of an apple tree, and quartered one of the fruit with his dagger, paring away the core and handing the pieces to Gawain one by one. Gawain had been quite vocal on the subject of being treated like an invalid, and had been extremely displeased at being told that he would have to ride home in a litter rather than on his horse, but when Galahad was around he was less agitated and submitted meekly to being fed and looked after - for the most part, at least.

"How are you feeling?" Galahad enquired tentatively, once Gawain had eaten his way through half the apple.

"Sore." Gawain scowled. "Fed up, and wishing we were at home."

Galahad nodded sympathetically. "I would give an awful lot to sleep in our own bed." _And for you to be healed and well again_ , he thought, but he did not speak the thought aloud.

"So would I," said Gawain, with feeling. "Now, let me have the rest of that apple before it goes brown, and perhaps we can get on the road again. The more I think about it, the more I reckon even Lhuned's worst scolding would be better than travelling in this bloody litter."

"I think you're right there," said Galahad with a smile, holding out the remaining apple quarters for Gawain to take. "It's bad enough on horseback - I can't imagine how bored you must be."

"More bored than I've ever been," said Gawain. "I'm entertaining myself by trying to imagine how much young Parsefal has grown up since we've been away. In my mind's eye he's looking more and more like the bastard offspring of Lancelot and Gareth every day." He grinned, and Galahad could not help but grin back.

"Now that's a frightening thought. Not least because Lhuned would likely have your hide for suggesting she had nothing to do with his creation."

They both laughed at that, and Galahad allowed himself a rare moment of hope, that everything might perhaps be all right. He was holding out hope, he realised, that Lhuned would be able to make it all better. She was no healer, he knew, but she had never failed at any task put before her, even the raising with utter adoration of the son of a knight who was not the one she loved; surely she could not fail at this.

And so, when they finally reached home, Galahad hung back and let Lhuned take everything in hand and felt his fear and terror lessen just a little. She installed Gawain in his own bed and proceeded to care for him with the same determination she applied to everything else, accepting help from Galahad and from Arthur's healers when she needed it but not hesitating to shoo them all out if she felt they were getting in the way. Gawain seemed as glad to see his sister again as Galahad was, and very slowly he began to get better; the inevitable worsening in his condition caused by the long journey home reversed and he began to improve. He was not out of the woods yet, but it seemed that he could at least see the light beyond the trees.


	15. Safe Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain and Galahad reflect on their choices and on how their ragtag band of Britons, Sarmatians and Romans has grown into a single community, stronger than the sum of its parts - and speculate a little about the future, and the next generation to lead their people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the final chapter. Thank you to those who have read, commented and kudos'd, and especially thank you for bearing with my less-than-reliable posting schedule. Here's the happy ending I've been promising... :)

Gawain's wounds healed slowly, over the winter, fading gradually to livid red lines across his skin, puckered from the healers' stitches. The scars ached with the cold in a way that none of his others did, and he was often to be found sitting as close to the fire as he could, soaking the heat into his bones. 

"Remind me why we stayed in this godsforsaken country," he muttered to Galahad one night close to the dead of winter, nearly Solstice and his birthday. "Why did we not go home and settle ourselves on the plains where the weather was better?"

Galahad chuckled just a little ruefully. "Because we had better things to do, remember? You're getting awfully grumpy in your old age."

Gawain cuffed him gently on the shoulder. "Old I may be, but slow I'm not. And I'm sorry. I just...well. You know." He shrugged awkwardly, biting his lip as a twinge shot across his back. 

"I know," said Galahad. "But, you know, you survived. You gave those stinking Saxon bastards a tale to take to their maker, and come next year you'll be fighting fit again. It's not like we're doing anything much this winter anyway."

Gawain shrugged again. "I suppose you're right. But...well. It never used to take this long for wounds to heal, before. It's a tiresome business, just waiting to get well again. I never was any good at it."

"Well, with all due respect, you've never been quite this badly wounded before," Galahad pointed out, carefully, not wanting to rub it in. "And we are all of us getting older. That insolent whelp of our sister's is ten summers old now, seeing his eleventh winter. I feel like every time I look at him he's grown up another couple of years."

"True enough," Gawain acknowledged with a wry smile. "Ten going on twenty. Did you know Lucan's got him and some of the other lads training in swordplay? Serious stuff, I mean, not the knocking around you and I have been teaching him. The lad's determined to have the next generation ready when they're needed."

Galahad nodded; Lucan had been with them on the campaign against the Saxons, the young British boy now a man grown and like to be named as Arthur's successor, since the king and queen still remained childless. Lucan had acquitted himself well, swinging Dagonet's sword with deadly precision and dispatching many Saxons in every battle; he had gone back to the old fort as soon as he was old enough and liberated the sword from the head of Dagonet's grave, bearing it back with an air of great solemnity and swearing in front of the whole community that he would be as great a soldier and as good a man as its former owner. Slowly but surely he was stepping into the role of Arthur's second-in-command, the role that had been lying empty for ten years; Gawain, Galahad and Bors had tried their best to fill it between them, but they had all known, all along, that for Arthur their role was somewhat different. The job of lieutenant was not one that any of them could fill; but Lucan seemed to be taking it on without any prompting, stepping into it as if he had been born to it. 

"Dagonet would've been proud of that one," Galahad said. "He's grown up well."

"He would," Gawain agreed, smiling faintly at the thought of their friend. "He'd have been a good father to the boy, if he'd had the chance. I reckon it would've done them both a lot of good."

"Funny, isn't it?" Galahad said. "Adopted-fatherhood seems to be the best thing for an ageing knight, once his first years of service are done. It's worked wonders on us."

Gawain chuckled. "Not what I meant, though. It's not as though either of us ever looked for it, but you know Dagonet always wanted brats of his own. Bors had enough and to spare, but you know it wasn't the same."

"I know," Galahad said. "I think we all knew, though he kept it to himself. He'd have given almost anything for a Vanora of his own and a brood of little ones. He'd have been better at it than Bors, too, in a lot of ways. Did you ever notice that when any of Bors' lot were hurt, they went to Dagonet first?"

Gawain nodded. "Plenty of times. They all knew that Dagonet would soothe their hurts and send them on their way with a kind word or two, where their father would have wanted to know why they hadn't come up fighting." He chuckled again, affectionately. "Don't misunderstand me, I have every respect for Bors, but sympathy is certainly not his strong point."

"Especially not when it comes to crying children." Galahad leaned forward to poke at the fire with a stick, making the flames leap and dance. "Come to think of it, we turned to Dagonet too, when we were first here, children far from home. Do you remember?"

"I do," Gawain said. "Even though he wasn't all that much older than us, really, but then when you're fourteen or fifteen, twenty or so seems a long way away." He shifted a little closer to the fire, willing the heat to soak into his bones and warm him through. "He was always the sympathetic one, even then. The one with tales of home and reassurance when we made mistakes. While Bors was off chasing Vanora and drinking ale." He chuckled. "Some things never change."

"True enough," said Galahad. "And then again, some things do. Dagonet's boy is a man grown, and he'll be leading these people long after we're gone, the gods willing."

"With our sister's boy at his side, no doubt. They'll be in good hands, these people of ours. Once their future leaders have grown out of their recklessness, anyway." He gave a rueful grin, for Parsefal at least was still at the age where any caution he might have possessed was far outweighed by his enthusiasm. It was a rare practice when he did not come home bearing a new bruise or cut or scrape.

"Our people," said Galahad, thoughtfully. "If you'd told me back then, when we were still at the Wall, that one day we would come to view those painted bastards as our brothers-in-arms - and sisters," he added hastily, for their queen was still as much of a warrior as ever, and she and her band of fighting women were held in no little awe across the land, "I'd have told you that your wits must be wandering. But here we are, Sarmatians and Romans and Britons and Woads all together. Defending a land that isn't even ours, half of us." He shook his head. "But it feels more like home now than the plains. I don't know, maybe it is ours after all."

"Well, we've fought enough for it," Gawain said drily. "And those 'painted bastards' have fought alongside us, and fought bravely. I think perhaps we are all Britons now."

"I'll always be Sarmatian," Galahad said, "if only because I still know how to sit a horse better than any of those other buggers. But I know what you mean. These days I find myself thinking of myself as a Briton, too."

"A strange realisation to come to, is it not?" Gawain smiled and stretched a little, unkinking the muscles in his back. "Part Sarmatian, part soldier, part Briton. Part Roman, too, if we're honest, for our training in soldiery was mostly that of Rome."

Galahad pulled a face at that, but he didn't deny it; in all honesty, he couldn't, for he knew Gawain was right. "And so here we are," he said, "growing old in the service of a king we didn't expect, for a people we'd never have dreamed of. Truly a fate we never looked for." 

"Truly. But if the gods will it, then so be it, and I think that if they had other plans for us they would have revealed them long before now. It seems that returning to Sarmatia was not for us; and to be honest, I think we're better here. We could never have settled on the plains again, not after all we'd seen and done, you know that."

"I know," said Galahad. "And I don't mind, not really. I've grown to like it here. At least now we're here of our own free will."

"I think that's where the difference lies," said Gawain at length, sounding rather thoughtful. "Before, we were here against our will, but once we gained our freedom we chose to stay. And I think we've made a pretty good job of it, all things considered."

"I think we have, too. We've fought bravely, which has been enormously helpful because the Father of Battles alone knows what Arthur would have done without us. A handful of Romans and a bunch of ill-disciplined Woads does _not_ a successful army make."

Gawain chuckled. "Well, he'd have trained them well in the end, but I like to think that we helped speed up the process. And actually I was rather thinking of those future leaders, or one of them at least. You and I, we've brought young Parsefal up the best we could, and he'll be living up to his father's name before too long. Even if his mother won't name the man." He gave a rueful smile. "Well, his father, and the man who should have had that honour. I think they'd both be proud, if they could see him now."

"They would. Or they ought to be. He'll be a fine young man soon enough. Well, he'd better turn into one, anyway, he's given you and me more than our fair share of grey hairs over the years, it's the least he can do to repay us."

Gawain laughed properly at that, mostly because it was very true. And because it felt good to laugh, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd done it, not properly. It had been a long and painful autumn and winter, and his endurance had been worn thin, almost to breaking point; but perhaps here in the dead of winter, at the turning of the year, this would turn too, and he would begin to walk upwards again, into the light, as the days lengthened again and the weather grew warmer and his wounds healed and the scars stopped aching. There was, after all, still more to be done before he and the others could step back and hand the kingdom over to the younger ones; but when the time came to do so, he had no doubt that they would be good and capable leaders, taking their combined peoples forward into battle and defending their land. Safe hands, indeed, for the people of Britain. And perhaps, Gawain reflected, he could ask for nothing more.


End file.
